


You Have Found Your Way

by Yidkirkin



Series: When You Walk the Line [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Toriko (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dimension Travel, F/M, Families of Choice, M/M, Politics, Revolution, Revolutionaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 65,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yidkirkin/pseuds/Yidkirkin
Summary: Continued from 'When You Wish to be Wanted'. Harry has grown up in the Human World, and it has changed both him and his combo partner, his own cousin Dudley, in many ways. When the two of them are suddenly transported into the underground resistance group, the Order of the Phoenix, they get sucked head first into the war being raged through the streets of London.
Relationships: Komatsu/Toriko (Toriko), Match/Takimaru (Toriko)
Series: When You Walk the Line [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702063
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything.

SPOILERS

Dudley surveyed the hall they landed in with a critical eye and immediately noted the frightened air of the people who were huddled around the fireplaces to their left as well as the small mob in uniforms that were getting more agitated as the seconds ticked by. In the few seconds of stunned silence their unexpected arrival bought them he catalogued the man knocked out on the floor, the protective stance of the three to their immediate left, and the sharpened sticks that about half of those present were brandishing like weapons. When he glanced at Hamaru he saw that his cousin was staring off at some sort of gruesome statue or fountain –Dudley huffed in resignation, once again the one to acknowledge the unknown instead of bypass it nonchalantly. Maybe two extra years in the Human World really did make a difference.

“Sorry for poppin’ in.” Dudley said to all assembled, bowing slightly if only to be polite. “Wanna tell us what’s up?”

“ _They’re_ tryin’a kill all of _us_ ,” one man slightly back said –a twin? –and he pointed at the uniformed group to their right. “Y’ever heard of Nazis?”

“What are you morons standing around for?!” An older man in said group shouted. “SEIZE THEM ALL!”

As the uniformed group raised their sticks there was a scream and those to their left hurriedly backed toward the fireplaces, and Dudley instinctively ducked a blast of purple light that one of the men aimed his way; consequently he ended up closer to the frightened ones and further away from Hamaru.

It only took a moment for Hamaru to tense –he swept his gaze across all present and locked eyes with Dudley. Then he dropped to the ground and brushed his mangled hand across his cheek scar, an action that caused every single one of his many old injuries to flash with an orange glow just before he slapped his hand on the floor. Nothing happened for a split second, and then the uniforms of the advancing –had he said _Nazis?_ –ballooned out from the feet up and changed into giant, swathing mushrooms. Then Hamaru nicked his thumb on his Kirpan, smeared the resulting blood in a half circle before him, and a great wall of wood surged up and over their heads, effectively encasing them and two of the fireplaces in a dark dome lit only by the eerie green fire.

“Go on!” The man in front barked; he wasted no time in using the opportunity Hamaru had given them. He pushed the others toward the fireplaces and turned his back to Hamaru and Dudley for long enough that Dudley had to think it was on purpose. “Ginny, back to base!” The woman who wasn’t crying into the shoulder of one of the twins shouted back an affirmative, and to Dudley’s disbelief tugged two of their group into the nearest fireplace with her and disappeared in a great rush of green flame. A second later, the other twin grabbed the last two and was off in the same way, leaving their apparent leader alone with Hamaru and Dudley.

The man turned back to them with a calculating gleam in his eye; strangely, Dudley noticed that his hair was slowly turning from grey to a curly, deep brown and his skin was actively growing darker and gaining freckles. “How long will that hold?” He demanded, and he jerked his thumb at the wooden dome. Dudley sized him up. He couldn’t feel any sort of Cell presence from this man, which either meant extremely weak or _extremely_ powerful –Dudley looked over and saw Hamaru had come to stand next to him.

“It shan’t be much longer,” he said, and the man nodded before he pointed that odd stick at them and grew –literally –a few inches shorter before their eyes.

“Who are you, and how did you get here?”

“We know not of what has brought us, nor where we are,” Hamaru said evenly. “Hamaru Singh is my name, son of Taki. This is my own cousin, Dudley. Were we correct to stand with you?”

The man looked startled, and less and less like a man at all. Dudley nearly snorted despite the apparent seriousness of the situation –everyone always said Hama would do well in politics, but they never took into account that his cousin had no patience for turnaround. Especially not once his long, long fuse ran out and he resembled more a two-bit hoodlum than the esteemed grandson of the leader of the Gourmet Knights.

“ _They_ are the worst these people have to offer,” the man snarled, gesturing at the dome that protected them from the mob of uniformed men. “Blood-supremacists and fanatics, every one of them. We _save_ those they think are filth.”

The wood around them shook like it had been hit with a grenade, and Dudley saw Hamaru come to a decision. “If this is true, we will aid you. You have my word.”

The man stared at them, and Dudley wondered what he was seeing. Hamaru was the same as his birth father in both skin and hair, though his cousin had the green eyes of his birth mother. Neither of them had worn the turban in the single photo they ever saw of them, while Hamaru wore one in bright purple with the Knights’ crescent moon decorating it on the side. By now as well, Hamaru was dotted with scars that would have been an alarming sight in their home from so long ago, and his style of dress took more after the Knights and Sikh traditional fare than British norms; no surprise after close to a decade in the Human World.

Dudley’s time there was evident as well; the scars on his hands from his chosen field, the blond his hair stayed from his time in the sun, and the grey-red Psoriasis-like patches that dotted his skin from his face to his toes, left over from when he accidentally ingested a Plaque Mushroom. He hadn’t gotten so sucked into the culture, the most obvious tell of the Knights’ influence was atop his head; a green turban wrapped in their way, different from Hamaru’s in that his cousin wore his in the Pagri style.

Both of them wore a purple sash tied round the stomach, the ends of Dudley’s knotted off to the side and the ends of Hamaru’s pulled up and over his shoulder, then pinned to the breast of his shirt –as was proper. And something about them must have endeared them to this man in his odd robes and slowly thinning arms and rearranging face, for he drew himself up and nodded decisively.

“Let’s go, then.”

On the other side, the green fire died down to reveal they were in a cubicle of a dilapidated public toilet, empty except for the mice scurrying around in the corners. The man –who by now looked at least outwardly female and had aged into his late teens, a Cell user? –turned again to Hamaru.

“I’m Hermione, by the by,” he –she? –said. “Mind sealing this up the same, Singh?”

“I will do so,” Hamaru cracked his knuckles and bit at the cut on his thumb. “Dudley?”

“Right behind you.”

A few minutes later Hermione began leading them on a rambling path, obviously looking to shake anyone who had seen them come out of the toilets and trying to get far away as quickly as possible. She went so far as to use that stick of hers to break into locked doors and let them through turnstiles they should’ve paid for in any other situation. She didn’t relax until the three of them were sitting on a random subway car and speeding off, and even then it was so slight as to have been barely ‘relaxing’ at all; it was here that Dudley noticed the adverts on the ceiling and the station names on the displays.

“By Froese, are we in _London?_ ” he demanded. Hermione snorted slightly.

“The very heart of it, actually,” she drew out that stick again and started waving it in random looking patterns all around them, and there were quick glimmers of different colours in the air, like some sort of transparent barrier was being put up. “Privacy,” Hermione said in explanation at Dudley’s quizzical look. Some of the last glimpses of colour were accompanied by brief washes of cold or warm air down Dudley’s neck, and he shuddered uncomfortably, punching Hamaru in the leg when his cousin let loose a chuckle at his expense.

“There, we’re secure,” Hermione declared. Her appearance had –for lack of a better term, _stabilized_ , and she was probably about half a foot shorter than Dudley yet thinner than either of them. She had long, dark brown hair that needed a cut, her skin was dark brown and dotted with freckles, with circles under her eyes and the flat, not quite concave nails of someone who wasn’t eating nearly enough. As they watched, she took the opportunity to shuck that oversized robe thing she was wearing, revealing a worn out sweater and jeans that had definitely seen better days. “Little late for it, but thanks for the assistance. Things were looking bleak before you two showed up.” Hermione then stuck her hand out –it took Dudley a second of staring at it to remember that shaking hands was a _thing._

“Sorted. Care to tell us what we assisted _with?_ ” Dudley deftly shook the girl’s hand after Hamaru, slouching back in his seat and crossing his arms. Without standing he couldn’t exactly fall back on his preferred state of playing up the ‘ill-tempered bodyguard’ that most people thought he was, and he had to admit it made him feel antsy.

“We’d broken into the British Ministry of Magic to steal something critical to the resistance effort and rescue the Muggle-borns being put on trial for their blood-status,” Hermione said promptly, and then shrugged. “That there was us about to blast our way out.”

“I am thinking,” Hamaru said slowly. “That this ‘blood-status’ does mean they are related to someone... not-magical?”

“That’s the long and short of it,” Hermione confirmed.

“And those people you rescued, what did happen to them?” Dudley let his cousin take point in the conversation. He had always preferred to sit on the sidelines of word-games anyhow, and the fact that they were back in England for the first time since Dudley turned nine years old –well, it wasn’t exactly something he entertained would come to pass in nearly as long. “It may be apparent that we two are ignorant to the specifics of this... situation you are in. Mayhap you would enlighten us?”

“Ignor-?” Hermione cut herself off and looked at Hamaru’s hands as if she was trying to puzzle something out. Eventually she nodded, though. “Well, everyone we went in for got sent to a couple of our safe houses. Within a week we’ll have gathered their families and either gotten them out of the country or into hiding with our Muggle contacts. The ones who you saw there will have been taken to our base by Ginny and Draco. As for the ‘situation’; twenty years ago the British Magical community was being torn apart by a blood-purist who wanted to, basically, get rid of every witch or wizard related to Muggles. He... do you know his name already?”

“No clue, mate.”

“Then I won’t tell you. Call him You-Know-Who if anything, but he’s got this spell on his real title that will locate whoever says it near instantly. It’s called the Taboo,” She grimaced. “You won’t accidentally say it, either, so, sorry. But anyway, he murdered loads of people, and his followers... there were a few put under magic to do what he wanted, but the most were zealots, sadists and cowards and just, just awful people. We all thought he’d been killed by the Potters-”

If Dudley had been on edge at all, _that_ _name_ ratcheted his internal alarm bells up to an ear splitting volume, and he only managed to keep still by exerting all of his years of training in the kitchen around fire and time crunches and Ingredients that needed more than even his full concentration. Hamaru seemed to have caught it too, for his cousin placed a hand on Dudley’s elbow and gripped it tight in a way that was as much to ground Dudley as it was himself.

“-but then, two years ago, he came back. He worked in the shadows, gaining new followers and eventually, even though the resistance was trying hard to stop him, he took over our government a few months ago. If you’re related to Muggles, you’re stripped of your wand and sent to prison. If you’re a Muggle sympathizer, you’re put on a watch list. And if you happen to be a part of the Order of the Phoenix, he likes to murder us personally,” Hermione told them all of this with an uncomfortable half-smile on her face, and the air about her indicated she had a bit of experience with at least one of those things. “The Order started because they thought we could save it, this community. But now –Merlin, I hadn’t been in the Ministry since he took it over. There’s so many people just _going along with it_ , it makes me _sick._ Dumbledore thinks we can still save it, but I just want to get people out as fast as possible.”

“I feel the earlier comparison to Nazism may have been apt, if you’ll forgive my saying so,” Hamaru reached over and placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Your courage is evident, my friend. I said before we would aid you, and I will say so again.”

“Hah, like I could say no to that,” said Hermione sincerely. The train clattered along for a minute or two longer, and then she looked up at the board and said, “Our stop’s next. Keep up, yeah?”

Hermione flicked her wand around a bit just before they hopped off the subway –the air shimmered and wavered and with a soft ‘pop’ the volume around them rose significantly, and Dudley realized part of her spell waving must have put up some sort of noise dampener. They followed Hermione out into the station and then exited the underground to come up in what passed for London as suburbia.

“London, of all places,” Hamaru marvelled into Dudley’s ear, and he snorted derisively. Yeah, London; of any city in the world they landed themselves in _London_ and they were talking wizards and magic Nazis with a kid who couldn’t be any older than they were.

To one side of the street were the rows of Commons Housing that Dudley remembered being built before they left for the Human World, and to the other side were slightly older homes with a few small businesses tucked in between them. Hermione kept them close together and moving at a brisk pace down the sidewalk, occasionally cutting through a park or alleyway like shaking a tail was an ingrained habit; maybe it was, they had no clue exactly how long this war of theirs had been going on for.

After about ten minutes of walking, Hermione made a quick veer into a women’s clothing shop and beelined toward the changing rooms in the back. As they passed the elderly woman manning the counter she gave a little nod and ducked under the desk –a small plaque materialized on the register which read ‘be back soon’ at the same time Dudley heard the front door lock itself. When they made it to the back they ducked into a change room that was pretty obviously used for storage and Hermione took her wand and tapped the clothes pegs on the wall in a certain way; she grinned cheekily at them right before she pulled them _through the_ _wall_.

“Bloody hell, bruv. This sure is some super spy BS you’ve brought us into,” Dudley blurted as they popped out in the alley that was presumably behind the shop.

“Thanks,” Hermione snorted again. “Better to be careful, though I don’t reckon we were being followed right then.”

“A proper strategy, to be sure,” Hamaru commented. Dudley gave his cousin the side-eye –Hama got quiet when he was thinking hard, and when he got to thinking hard it meant that he was invested in whatever deal their jumping around the Human World dropped them into. Half that time it meant Dudley got pulled along into his cousin’s pace whether he liked it or not, and the other half it meant that Dudley got invested right alongside Hamaru. Hopefully this weird magic war of Hermione’s wasn’t going to turn out fatal for them –especially with the mention of Hama’s old last name in the mix.

“Alright, here we are,” Hermione announced, suddenly halted in the middle of their trek. This time they were in the alley between the backyards of two different rows of houses, the low walls and overgrown vegetation hinting to an older neighbourhood than they had initially seen and the late hour of the day only giving off a bit of activity from the inhabitants. Dudley peered into the yards on either side of them; one had a kids’ trampoline rusting away just beyond the back gate and the other was filled with lawn chairs and a burnt out firepit. Hermione drew out a cellphone and swiftly typed something into the screen. “Take a look,” she prompted.

_A backyard of the Order of the Phoenix, London._

As soon as the words processed, it was like an entire house yard ballooned out of nothing right before their very eyes; somehow it was sat in between the other two on either side of it without a house behind it, and so while Dudley knew that meant there had to be a building hidden there as well, as soon as he thought it he could feel the notion slipping away. The lone backyard was overgrown as the rest of them but in a decidedly more calculated fashion, with the apple trees left to do what they wanted while underneath them there were rows of vegetables dug into the raised beds and a small table far off next to a low garden shed.

Dudley’s Chef brain was already cataloguing every last variety he could see; and all manner of them Benign, which would be like a vacation for him from the highly Food Honour-based Ingredients Hamaru’s Full Course and Gourmet Cells required him to focus on.

“Impressive,” he offered.

“Also an extra failsafe,” said Hermione, sounding a little proud despite herself. She moved them into the back gate and then gave it another series of rhythmic knocks –Dudley wondered how they memorized all of them. “If you guys weren’t on the level, you wouldn’t have made it this far,” she indicated her wand, and she must have tested them somehow in between the Ministry and here, Dudley realized. “Last thing is for our Officiator to clear you, then you’re all set. Sorry about all the security, we’ve had a few...” Hermione frowned. “Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for procedure.”

“It’s no trouble, my friend.” Hamaru assured her. “The enemy faints not, nor faileth, as they say. To keep safe yourselves is the highest priority.”

“An astute observation.”

Another teenager spoke and was suddenly there in the garden, presumably from the hidden house that Dudley had already forgotten about again, and yet Dudley couldn’t remember seeing him approach from any one direction either. The bloke was about as tall as Dudley and yet even broader, and wore a serious, restrained look, almost like he was bored with the proceedings already. His eyes were brown and tired, and he had short, light brown hair and was wearing a red sweater and pair of slacks, with an odd holster on his leg for his wand, and a large brown leather book in his hands. He opened the book and approached them, presumably the Officiator Hermione had mentioned.

“Write your full name, here,” he said slowly, carefully pronouncing each word as he indicated a block of empty space on the page. The names above that block were blurry and Dudley couldn’t focus his eyes on them. “To do so is to agree that you will not reveal this location, and it will be enforced, non-violently I assure you,” the Officiator moved his finger to the right. “And in the corresponding box, please write your next-of-kin in case of death, soul loss, or insanity. This information is kept in the highest security.”

“And how are you called, my good man?” Hamaru asked.

The boy blinked. “I am Neville,” he inclined his head slightly.

“Then I am happy to meet you, Neville.” Hamaru offered a hand to which Neville stared at considering a moment, before he gave it a brief, strong shake. Off to the side, Hermione let out a quiet, low whistle.

“Hamaru Singh, son of Taki, am I,” Hamaru greeted as he jotted the information down. “My closest kin would indeed be my father, Takimaru son of Ai. But I shall also give his partner, Match successor to Ryu, in case of my father’s absence.”

Neville took the ledger back briefly, regarded it, and then handed it to Dudley. “Acceptable,” he said.

“Dudley,” he nodded to the Officiator and did not say _Dursley_ when he wrote it down. “Taki-ji’ll be my first choice, too, but I’ll also add my teacher, Brunch of Mt. Tengu.”

Again, Neville took the ledger. “Also acceptable. Hermione, if you please,” Neville handed the other teenager the book gracefully. “I am now going to officiate you.”

“Aye, marry,” said Hama; Dudley nodded in agreement.

“On this day, your solidarity in our struggle is accepted. When the time comes, you will have ours in return,” Neville intoned with finality. “And if you wish to leave, no demand of ours will stop you.”

Hamaru bowed formally when Neville finished speaking. “In this we have an accord. Unknown be how we made way here, but I cannot abide by such pressing of your spirits in the country of my birth. I have made this oath to Hermione; so long as we tide with you here we shall lend our efforts,” Hamaru said, and sometimes Dudley still found it a little hard to parse; the accent and speech patterns his cousin had picked up from Taki-ji one of the more unique in the Human World, as outdated there as here. “Although I shall make it known that e’en that is a mystery to us. Mayhap it be a day, but mayhap it also be four-score years.”

Dudley sure as hell hoped it wasn’t so long. Hermione handed the ledger back to Neville and again showed the two of them her cellphone screen, which this time read;

_The London base of the Order of the Phoenix is located at number twelve, Grimmauld Place._

And as had the garden, so too then did the house that was lying hidden before them spring into being. It was, as the rest of the homes on this block, three stories tall and done in grey, time-weathered brick, but opposed to the others it appeared to be holding up well, no loose boards or cracked windows to be seen. Some of the accents were a tad gothic, tacky if Dudley was going to be honest, but beyond the windows he could see some cheery drapes and even a few potted plants on the sills. His half-remembered wonderings about how Neville had approached them were answered by the appearance of a door next to the low shed, out of which a pale, middle aged man poked his head and spoke to the four of them.

“Ron’s just finishing up with the Muggle-borns, if you want these two to be checked,” he said.

“Thanks, Remus. We’ll be in soon,” Hermione assured him; then she paused and her gaze snapped down to something near Hamaru’s shoulders, “...Is that a snake?”

Neville tensed slightly, and Dudley looked as well, but due to the angle couldn’t quite see the one he knew Hermione had pointed out. Hamaru’s face turned bright red in an instant as he realized he had completely ignored the now very obvious little thing curled up underneath his collar.

Dudley chuckled a bit at Hamaru’s expense, “ **Rhssa!** ” Hamaru cried out, and his companion slithered further from his shirt, hissing her equivalent of a laugh as she did. Something about the other teenagers around them shifted, but Dudley was too focused on his cousin to pay them attention. “ **Have you slept there till now? When did you get there?** ”

“ **Yes! Since before-river, ‘Ru.** ” Rhssa propped herself up in front of Hamaru’s face using his suddenly raised hands as an aid and scrubbed her frills over his cheek –rather like an affectionate cat would do to a favoured human, but since she was a Coarse Slug Snake her frills left a mark similar to rug burn. “ **Me-Rhssa want see!** ”

“ **I know you do, my love.** ” Hamaru adjusted his collar so she would lay again just inside of it, so when her head peeked out now she could watch what was happening. Dudley turned back to the ‘Officiator’, who was staring at Rhssa like he was trying to puzzle something out, and then Hermione who had relaxed somewhere in the midst of the interaction.

“Many thanks, I daresay I may have embarrassed myself to great heights had she made herself known in the middle of a meal,” Hamaru smiled, obviously hoping to put them further at ease. “I can see you are nervous, but I assure you Rhssa is extremely well behaved for her age. Do be at ease.”

“...snakes have a bad association here, Singh,” Neville sighed. “Keep an eye on her and we should be fine.”

“Of course.”

“Now, if you want to get through this next part, simply listen to Ron and you’ll be fine,” Neville said, a slight smile breaking through the stoic.

“Medic’s rules, no others,” Hermione agreed. “Trust us, the only ones allowed to sass him are Draco because he’s gone half nuts, and anyone who is _actually dying for real_. If you’re not either of those, do as he says or suffer a sore ear.”

The inside of the house was darkly painted but brightly lit, any grime to be seen kept to the far corners and the undersides of the boots piled up next to the door. The mudroom was in complete disarray –coats piled high on every hook, holsters for wands and such beside each, the boots and shoes confined to the floormat next to the door but then oddly streamlined brooms propped up in the corner. There was a great clock on one wall which instead of telling the time, had names engraved on each of the hands which then pointed to a location or activity. As Dudley studied it, a person named Percy lazily swung round to ‘Mortal Peril’ before turning back to ‘At Home’. There was a dark splatter of red on the floor just past where the rug ended, at which the man from earlier was readying a mop.

“Draco splinched again,” said he, pointing at the stain; Hermione sighed and shook her head like she had heard such before. The man turned to greet Hamaru and Dudley but gave a funny little jolt and paled like he was seeing a ghost.

“Hail and well met,” Hamaru demurred. He stepped forward and offered a hand, which the man shook with a daze on his face. “Hamaru Singh, if it pleases you.”

“Oh... Remus Lupin...” the man blinked and came back to himself. “I’m sorry, you look so much like someone I knew...”

“Such is apparent,” Hamaru agreed vaguely. “I might discuss such with you, but after this appointment I am told of?”

“It _is_ best not to keep Ron waiting,” Remus agreed. Dudley surveyed him; he was of average height but thin as a rail, cradled his left side like he was wounded or hungry, and bore large dark bruises under his eyes from insomnia. On top of this he was sallow, his grey-brown hair limp and picky, and as well had those awful flat nails like Hermione and Neville did. Did these people not have anyone around to feed them properly? “Neville, your Frenchman’s on the line.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Neville peeled off into what looked to Dudley to be a dining room while Remus started on cleaning up the blood from whatever ‘splinching’ meant, which left Hermione to escort them up the stairs and through the rest of the house. It was an old building, but one that was now in progress; there were sections cut out of the walls and half-reconstructed, doors mostly painted but for the edges where tape still stuck, and buckets that smelled of cleaning solution placed by particularly dirty portions of the floor. They walked through an odd area on the main floor that silenced all sound, seemingly centred on a part of the wall hidden behind a curtain, and then once past it they went up and passed by a living room that contained a couple of teenagers cleaning out a show cabinet with the help of a small being wearing what looked to be a brown towel as a toga.

At the next staircase they heard from above two arguing voices, one almost whining while the other snapped and groused.

“Alright in here?” Hermione asked as she pushed the door open. They were obviously in a makeshift infirmary now, what with the locked cabinets, narrow beds and people in various stages of care dotting the room. The four that Hermione’s operation had rescued were off to the right, the crying woman sitting next to her presumed husband, who was snoozing lightly on a bed. In a chair was a nervous young man with his hand bandaged, and next to him was a middle aged woman shivering and white as a sheet. On the other side of the room lay a person on a bed, their head half-concealed by gauze, and then at a bed some feet in front of the door were the two they heard before arriving.

“Missing a finger,” the boy on the bed laughed with a jaunty wave, making the blood from said absent appendage spray some on his companion’s apron. He had tufty white-blond hair and grey eyes, and while physically he appeared healthier than his comrades there was an odd slant to his expression that had Dudley thinking about Hermione saying ‘half nuts’.

“I _said_ not to do that,” The boy standing next to him snapped; he simultaneously pushed Draco’s hand down and flicked him on the forehead hard enough to leave a red mark. Ron (presumably) scowled as he resumed whatever he had been doing to the finger –he was very tall and had pale skin covered near completely in freckles. He was flushed in irritation, and had bright, fiery red hair shaved close to his skull; over his shirt and pants was a beige apron that had seen the thick of things one too many times if the stains were any way to tell. “Pick a bed.”

Hamaru and Dudley exchanged glances while Hermione moved out from behind them to survey the mess Draco’s hand currently was. “I always thought a medic’s prerogative was the first of Gamp’s Laws,” said she.

Ron scoffed, “Sweet talkin’ll get you nowhere, ‘Mione,” on the bed, Draco offered a long suffering groan.

“In fact, quit it –I think he gets harsher the longer he’s exposed to sincerity – _ouch_! How’d you even-” Draco flinched as Ron again did something to his finger.

“Oops, sorry. You know my hands,” he said blandly, and finished a few minutes later.

Ron turned to Dudley first. “Arms up and stay _still_ ,” he demanded and used his wand to scan him head to toe; his frown only deepened slightly. “You’ve got an old break healed wrong, but it looks to be stable enough. And there’s a tear in your right meniscus. Any pain or locking knee?” Dudley told him there wasn’t. “Then I’ll fix it after dinner, or tomorrow. If it locks before then, find me.”

“Dud, I trust it hasn’t bothered you?” His cousin asked mildly, and Dudley groaned.

“Oh, don’t go mother-hennin’ me now, Hama. It’s _fine_ ,” he slapped the offending knee for good measure. “Ain’t stoppin’ me from cookin’.”

“As you say,” Hamaru raised his arms the same so Ron could get on with it.

“Well, beyond the metric _ton_ of scar tissue and your eyes, you’ve a clean bill of health,” Ron almost wasn’t frowning at all –and was that a hint of approval in his voice? “Well, just don’t let the accident-prone idiots around here influence you and you’ll be fine.”

“Many thanks,” Hamaru smiled and extended his hand to shake with Ron. “I am Hamaru Singh. What may be your name?”

Addressing Ron appeared to give him some reason to return to his previous grumpy self, and signal to the others in the room that all was well. “Weasley. Well, Ron.”

“It is well to meet you, Weasley,” Hamaru inclined his head formally. “This is my little darling, Rhssa,” he drew attention to where she was perched in his collar. “And mine cousin, Dudley. It is kind of you to look after our health.”

For a second Ron and Draco both stared, stunned, at the snake curled lazily around Hamaru’s neck; they shot a quick look each at Hermione, and then appeared to get over it. Ron’s scowl returned threefold and his shoulders squared –but now his ears were tinged dark red. “I’m doing my job, s’all,” he groused, but didn’t appear to be truly irritated.

Hermione checked her watch then. “Why not leave Ginny here and come down with us all, Ron? Supper will start sooner than not,” she glanced at Hamaru and Dudley and hummed. “You two should eat, it’s been a trying day. We’ve got a meeting going tomorrow that I’ll introduce you at, and it’ll be good for if you’re going to help us out.”

“We should be enthused.”

Ron left a slightly younger redheaded girl in the infirmary (one who waved off his instruction with the air of having heard it all before, and proceeded to stick her nose in a rather gruesome looking title, ‘Engraved Flesh, A Tome’) and then he stood to follow them. As he did, a pair of elbow crutches materialized strapped to his forearms, which he immediately set to use as they trudged back down the house’s many stairs. Draco pointedly ignored Ron’s ‘suggestion’ to stay behind and instead struck up a conversation with Hamaru that boiled down to him sticking his new finger stump at Hamaru’s various scars and demanding an explanation.

“Those,” at the shallow dents just above his left elbow.

“Poachers, on the Hallebury Peninsula. I did assist a team of Apprentice Revivers in protecting a certain endangered species, and such the group we had been tailing decided they could take the chance of retaliation.”

“That?” The three thin stripes that curled around Hamaru’s right ankle and up to his knee.

“A magnificent species, the Ma-Squid-Te. Their limbs are also their mouths and whence they wrap around you they do tear away flesh with ease. Not, was it, a balmy thought of mine to swim in the cave pool that day.”

“Right, and I gotta ask about the face,” Draco said, and from ahead of them Dudley saw Hermione shake her head, presumably at how tactless he was. “This lot’ll never ask, but I want to know.”

“In my childhood, I was then attacked by a beast called the Tearor Moran Bird,” Hamaru told him, and by the smile on his face he was amenable to indulge the pestering. “By luck and foresight I did alert a nearby settlement to my distress, although I were close to death by then. My eventual teacher, Shu-sensei, was the one to rescue me.”

“A _bird_? Didn’t know pecking was so damaging,” Draco snorted. “And why in the name of Merlin are you talking like bonny auld King Rich –hey!” from behind them Ron used one of his crutches to hit Draco in the shin and hissed at the blond to stop being rude to someone he didn’t know.

They were down in the dining room by then; Hermione pulled a couple extra chairs from the wall and went to one of the iceboxes to grab a few bottles of orange-brown liquid that she then passed out to everyone except for Ron and Remus, who was at the table with Neville and already half through a cup of tea. Being near a kitchen was making Dudley a little antsy –he hadn’t been able to cook since dinner the night before –but the fact that food wasn’t being served yet soothed his bother just a bit. Perhaps later he would convince these people to let him feed them properly; as if sensing his thoughts, Hamaru shot him an amused smile.

“I take no offence, Weasley, Malfoy,” said he. “Truly, I did not speak as such in my first ten years, or thereabouts. But in due time I took on the trappings of my father and his own company, and as it happens I have grown fond of it. My dear cousin never did take it up, as he is a fellow with a poor temper.”

Dudley rolled his eyes at the teasing jab. “ _Aye_ , _verily_ , it’s a wash for me.”

“Sae lein a thee nadir vil spaiketh a dis,” Draco said in _twelfth century English_ , and the whole room turned to stare at him until he turned pink in the cheeks. “ _What?_ I can do more than shoot Death Eaters!”

“...Weasley, you are the primary medic for your effort, rightly? This is a great responsibility,” Hamaru unsubtly moved the conversation along.

Ron paused in making up his cup of tea, and Dudley took that opportunity to try the drink he had been given. It was an odd mixture –creamy, buttery, sweet, and a slight carbonation to it on top of that. It wasn’t bad in honesty, although a stout pint of March Ale would suit him better.

“Mn, that’s one way to put it,” he said, almost reluctantly. “Never got to the last year of my Apprenticeship –Malfoy says I’m more a back-alley doctor than anythin’.”

“I didn’t say it nearly that nicely!” Draco protested.

“Can always use more doctors,” Dudley commented, impressed. “Amara-sensei had her work cut out.”

“Truly, and the Country of Life can tend on the insular,” it was expected, given how dangerous travel through the Human World could be even in so-called safe areas. “Moreso, I would say, surgeons are in short supply. The amount of people to see Ai-ojiisan for tumours in Wok Continent alone takes up weeks.”

“See ‘em for tumours?” Ron asked, eyes sharp with interest.

“My grandfather can cure a disease if he eats the tainted flesh,” Hamaru said simply, and unlike many others who cringed or made sounds of disgust at the thought, Ron sat up further and appeared fascinated.

“ _What?_ I’ve never heard of anything like that!” There was a tinge of real fascination in his tone, and his tea was pushed aside to make way for a notebook and pen. “It’s a non-magic technique? What are the parameters of the diseases he can cure?”

Hamaru and Ron settled into an in-depth discussion of Aimaru’s ability, and so Dudley turned to Neville, who –despite Hermione taking point with their introduction to this group and Remus being older –Dudley had pinned as this resistance effort’s leader. The other teenager was quiet in the way that meant he was absorbing all that went on around him and didn’t feel any need to interject, but when Dudley sat next to him at the table he obligingly turned to face him.

“This gonna turn into dinner any time soon? What do you want me to take out?” Neville eyed him silently for a second, lingering on the chef jacket and knife bag strapped to his leg.

“We have some stew that needs to be reheated, in the icebox,” he nodded to the old fashioned thing in the corner, wooden doors and all. “There is a loaf of bread I planned on serving as well, and if anyone is inclined I can gather a bit for a simple salad from outside. Anything else has to be saved for the meeting at breakfast tomorrow, since we’re on rations until we can set up a stable food supply.”

“Is _that_ what’s going on? Nevermind, I understand,” Dudley capped the bottle for now and stood up. “You guys don’t worry, I’ll have it set in less than a half hour.” Neville hummed uncertainly for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye Dudley saw Hamaru open his mouth and he already knew what he was going to say.

“I implore you allow this of my dear Chef, lacking a kitchen is like losing a limb for the poor babe –ack!” Hamaru squawked but still snickered when Dudley reached over and pinched his cheek hard for the teasing. “Wipe your eyes, man! I hate to see a stout fellow so snivelling like a child over spilt –nay, _Dud_ , stop!”

“Aah, should I, my _dear_ Hunter?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but ‘your Chef’?” Remus asked quietly, which pulled Hamaru and Dudley out of their brief aside.

“Sure am, boss,” Dudley made his way to the icebox and immediately found the pot of stew –it wasn’t nearly so much as he might’ve made for a group this size, but he expected they hadn’t thought of the extra mouths following them back from that Ministry business. “An’ per our Agreement it’s a meal a day at least or I’ve grounds to break it off,” Dudley plonked the pot on the stove and set it aflame with a nearby pack of matches, mentally making a note to check at some point that the internal workings of it were all fine even as he set the oven to a warming temperature.

Hamaru rolled his eyes at him. “I do think Combo Partners still aren’t well known here, Dud,” he reminded him, but Dudley was busy getting the bread out and cleaning the knife he’d found in the sink and so he didn’t respond. “Dudley and I are in a professional relationship where the Gourmet Hunter –myself –provides Ingredients, and the Chef –Dudley –prepares them. In our Combo Agreement, Dudley stipulated that he was to prepare at least one meal a day, when possible. He shamelessly takes advantage.”

“Could’a called it a sheg, cousin. Don’t think Brunch-sensei only taught me how to grill fish.”

The other occupants of the room seemed to find this acceptable, and conversation flowed again for some minutes while Dudley took care of the evening’s meal. Hamaru and Ron moved on to the general advancements that Life doctors had brought to the medical field since their childhood and Neville went back to the little stack of papers he had piled in front of him, occasionally asking Remus and Hermione for some manner of input. Draco’s eyes stayed on Dudley, although oddly it didn’t make him feel tense –it was almost the same as when there were observers who paid to watch Komatsu-han cook, fascinated with the way the famous Chef moved and managed his kitchen.

Dudley was close to re-seasoning the stew when someone in heavy boots began stomping down the stairs towards them, briefly pausing outside the door to curse quietly and take the things off their feet. From his vantage point at the stove, Dudley was probably the only one who saw Lupin give Hamaru an apprehensive look.

“Remus, I always said that wife of yours was a natural!” The man who came through the door just then was pale and thinner than all the rest here, like he was recovering from a long period of even worse malnutrition. His hair was short and unbrushed and his clothes were alternately stained in motor oil and scuffed with dust, and Dudley abruptly recalled seeing him in the room they passed on the way upstairs to see Ron. “Let me buy her a motorbike!”

“Tonks is her own woman, Sirius, you can buy her whatever she wants,” Remus replied, a fond smile gracing his tired face. Seeing them next to each other made Dudley itch to glue them to their chairs and feed them until they couldn’t _think,_ let alone move.

“Just like you to say that,” ‘Sirius’ laughed, and then he noticed Dudley stirring the stew. “New recruit?” he asked, right before he saw Hamaru next to Ron and his expression turned from content, to confused, and then swiftly to pain and outrage.

“This better not be a jab at me Longbottom, or so _help_ _me_!” he spat as he whirled on Neville, and the atmosphere in the room immediately went tense. “I didn’t show you those so you could make a mockery of them!”

“I’ve done no such thing,” Neville said calmly in the face of Sirius’ ire, which may have made the man even angrier. “He certainly looks the part, but his name-”

“’Looks the part’?!” Sirius parroted incredulously. “A damned ghost is sittin’ there and if Harry wasn’t missing I’d’ve said it was him from the _start!_ ”

“I do wonder what it is you’re speaking of,” Hamaru interrupted. All present looked to him as if he’d grown a second head, the shouting man tensed in a way that put Dudley on edge. “I don’t care for turnaround, so I shall say-”

Sirius levelled his wand between Hamaru’s eyes, and his cousin fell silent while the room around them noisily protested the action –but no one moved to intervene. Dudley stayed where he was only because Hama caught his eye and made a signs with his hand that basically meant;

_its-ok-dud_

“Who the hell are you and where did you come from?!” Sirius demanded, and sparks shot from the end of his wand tip; Hamaru didn’t even flinch.

“If you would simply _hold._ ”

The assembled resistance fighters all gasped when the weight of Hamaru’s presence fell upon them and the pressure made their knees or shoulders all buckle slightly –it was nowhere near enough to knock them out, but it certainly got their attention and made them quiet down. Hamaru stood and plucked the wand from Sirius’ straining grip, and then he set it down on the table in front of Neville. Dudley calmly abided the stifling pressure –used to it by now after so long –until after a long minute Hamaru reeled it back. His cousin rarely became truly angry, and this wasn’t one of those times; he had probably just been fed up by the sudden aggressiveness towards him and put his foot down, so to speak.

Hamaru took a deep, short breath and surveyed the recovering members of this Order.

“I can see that despite my wish to the contrary, I shall need to dredge up old hurts to put some of you at ease,” he paused, and then nodded in resignation. “In my early youth I was thereabouts called Harry Potter, but I’ve not in over eight years. Hamaru Singh is my name, son of Taki, and I should like you to call me by it,” Hamaru then bowed deeply, as polite as ever. “And then, my own cousin and Combo Partner, Dudley Dursley. We do both represent the Gourmet Knights, a non-profit organization in Simple Diet Hill, and indeed I have made oath to Hermione and Neville that we shall help you in this time of crisis. The fact that you seem to be familiar with me is as a bee to any one flower –coincidence, if not purely accidental.”

“You’re _lying_ ,” Sirius choked out.

“I am not,” Hamaru rebuked gently. “I do not know how to ease your mind, but I shall try.”

“Then where have you _been_?” Sirius sounded almost desperate, but it was clear by his next statement that he was erring on the side of caution. “Tell me something only Harry would know.”

“I cannot tell you such unprompted; I was nine years old the last time I answered to that name,” Hamaru said.

“...where was Harry _sleeping_?”

Hamaru jolted, and that was not a question even Dudley could have guessed that the man might choose; he wondered what this Sirius’ relation to the whole sorry situation even was. The entire room had gone eerily silent, not wanting to interrupt the confrontation; Remus had stood up when Sirius had pointed his wand at Hamaru, and was now staring at Dudley’s cousin in a mix of apprehension and relief from just behind his agitated friend.

“Old hurts indeed,” Hamaru sighed and Dudley’s heart ached –this guy just _had_ to bring up nearly the worst Dudley’s shitty parents had done, hadn’t he? “I do seem to recall, a cupboard under the staircase.”

“ _Cupboard?_ ” Draco whispered to no one in particular.

“Sirius, I think he’s telling the truth,” Remus sounded torn up; he put a hand on Sirius’ elbow as if to hold him back, but the man didn’t notice it –he was _crying_.

“Oh, god, you’re _alive_! I never –we couldn’t _find you-_ ” Sirius hunched in on himself, only acknowledging Remus by leaning into his steadying hands, though the other man looked also close to tears. Hamaru’s collected facade cracked and he took two quick strides forward, just in time to catch Sirius’ hand between his own in an echo of how he comforted Dudley so many years ago.

“Sirius –it _is_ Sirius, yes? –can you sit? I warrant you’ll feel a bit better,” Hamaru said softly, and as he and Remus helped the grief-stricken man to sit, Dudley began to serve the stew and bread; he kept an ear open but decided to let them be, as this was obviously an issue that concerned the Potter side of the family. Sirius’ gaze didn’t leave Hamaru and the white-knuckled grip he maintained on his hands didn’t appear to be loosening any time soon. “What can I say to soothe you?”

“Well, I suppose we-we want to know where you’ve _been_ for the past eight years, Harr... Hamaru?” Remus asked, now with his arm around Sirius’ shoulder, half holding him up. “It was an awful day, going to Albus and getting told he had no clue where you were, when he _should_ _have-_ ” Remus cut himself off.

Hamaru pondered for a second on how best to go forward. “Firstly, I must ask how it is that you know me? My birth parents, in some manner, but the particulars elude.”

Sirius and Remus deflated all at once, like they hadn’t slept in a week and it was just catching up to them. “We were friends with both your mother and father,” Sirius began. “Before you were born, we all joined the resistance to fight against _him_ the first time around. Lily and James went into hiding to protect you, and they were –they were killed when he discovered their location. You were orphaned and somehow _he_ died the same night.”

“We wanted to take you in,” Remus said, pleading. “But I was still undercover and the law was against me, and Sirius...”

“I went mad with grief,” said he. “All I could think about was getting revenge, instead of making sure you were safe. I’m –I’m so sorry, Harry-”

That... was completely different from what Dudley’s mother had maintained for years; that James Potter was a drunk who had led Lily Evans astray, and they had both died in a car accident. As he passed them to set a bowl in front of Remus, Dudley saw that while Hamaru looked unaffected in the face, his hands where they held one of Sirius’ were equally as tense and shaking.

“And my biological parents were both... wizards,” Hamaru asked, a bit of his ever present cheer slipping.

“As you are, too,” Remus answered.

“Mayhap, in a way,” Hamaru hedged. “Well, as to where I was, I shall say truthfully; it is no place on any map you possess. Simple Diet Hill has been my home hence that even’ just before I turned nine years old, Dudley’s as well, and I was legally adopted by Takimaru son of Ai close to ten years ago, now, when I were seven. He is a kind, loving man who has raised us as his own, and if it should lessen your worry, he is a better guardian to me in a day than my aunt and uncle were in near to ten years. Forgive my saying so, Dudley.”

He shook his head. “Nah, it’s the truth. Taki-ji’s been better for us both, I’d say.”

“Adopted? But, Albus told us that your aunt reported you _missing,_ along with your cousin,” Remus sounded as if a law of the universe had been broken in front of him.

“I don’t suppose any of you are familiar with Gourmet Cells?” When those around the table shook their heads, Hamaru sighed gustily. “They are, essentially, the physical embodiment of the source of life, even if not everything possesses them in an amount that can be used or detected. They have extreme regenerative and strength-enhancing qualities, and if inclined, a person can develop a certain manner in which to use them. Dudley’s teacher can generate electricity within his body and use it offensively in battle, for example,” Hamaru chuckled at the quizzical looks on their faces. “As for myself, by the time I was seven I had begun to use my Cells to manipulate the molecular composition of matter –at first instinctually and then to greater heights with understanding an item’s components. It has been theorized that in a time of stress I did so to my own body, thereby reforming somewhere else in the world –and that day, I did so and pulled Dudley along with me. Unable to return, we remained.”

“That... is magic, Singh,” Ron said, like he was unused to explaining the concept; Dudley couldn’t stop himself from snorting. “It might show in a different way, but the fact that you’ve done it since you were a kid is consistent with Accidental Magic. Your cousin’s not magic, but both your parents were wizards...”

“I assure you that is not the case, my good man,” Hamaru replied evenly. “I have been tested quite thoroughly, as has Dudley, and by all accounts, by all expert opinion, and by all scientific data, we do utilize Gourmet Cells. If you would like to check in your way, by all means. But this is not an _important_ point of contention. This is the country I was born in, truly, and some of you may be familiar with me from when I was a babe. And now here I have found myself, by my own word to aid you in this fight you have in hand, and by bizarre coincidence it is revealed that I have something of family ties remaining.”

“Yes, putting aside magic versus... gourmet cells,” Remus cut in quickly, thankfully aborting whatever was brewing behind Ron’s scowl. “It is, well, we’re really just so relieved that you’re alive, Hamaru. I don’t know if you can imagine.”

“I can try to, even so,” Hamaru said. Then he looked at the stew Dudley had delivered minutes ago, and shot a guilty look in his direction for having ignored it. “I would suggest we eat the meal Dudley has gave us, and continue this discussion in the morn’. A rest will serve to soothe our hearts and fortify our minds.”

“That... is fair,” Sirius said unhappily, but he let go of Hamaru’s hands all the same.

Vvv

_“Dudley! Dudley, please wake up!”_

_Harry hovered over his unconscious cousin fretfully, the longer the other boy went without responding to him the more frazzled he got. This had never happened before –someone else had never_ come with him _, what if he’d made Dudley sick? What if because of Dudley’s lack of Gourmet Cells he just wouldn’t be_ able _to wake up here, or he was hurt now, or Harry’s Cells had done something weitd to him, or what if he stayed like this_ forever-

_“H-Harrryy...?”_

_“Dudley!” Harry shouted, relieved. Dudley whined and clutched at his head, but managed to sit up even if he shuddered while doing so, an expression of pain flashing across his face. He looked around, at first confused and then with panic slowly taking over._

_“W-Where are we?!”_

_It was a foreign sight even to Harry; the two of them were sat in a great barren landscape without any trees or shrubs taller than their shoulders and pockmarked with odd, enormous holes that disappeared into the depths of the earth. Far off in one direction there was a break in the apparent mountain range that basically wrapped around the whole horizon, and in the other a vague splotch of shape and colour that resembled a city. The air around them was warm, if plagued with high winds, enough so that Harry was glad Dudley had been wearing a sweater and socks with his shoes before they left Surrey._

_“I can’t say, beyond somewhere in the Human World,” Harry admitted honestly. “I’m so sorry, Dudley, I must’ve missed the warning signs! I truly didn’t mean to bring you along.”_

_“It’s not your fault,” Dudley said immediately. “And-And it’s not so bad... y-you know what you’re doing by now, so I’m as-as safe as can be, yeah!”_

_Harry didn’t point out that Dudley sounded scared to death despite his words to the contrary; instead he nodded and took a second to centre himself, so when he stood up he was significantly calmer and ready to focus on figuring out what to do next._

_“I have a bit of food saved for emergency, but I do say we should start walking straight away. Over yonder, that –uh, looks like a city, and without any Ingredients around that I can see –well, it won’t do us good to sit tight,” Harry carefully helped Dudley to his feet. “Does your head still hurt? Do you think you **can** walk for a while?”_

_“A bit, but not s’much as when I woke up. An’ I think I can go for a bit,” Dudley’s face turned beet red, but he reached out even so and grabbed Harry’s hand; Harry smiled, glad his cousin was getting used to more casual ways to show affection._

_“Let’s go, then. Just tell me if you want to stop,” Dudley nodded, and with that the children began to walk._

_Luckily, wherever they landed still appeared to have a good amount of daylight left to go, for it soon became apparent that they were going to have a long trek ahead of them. Harry knew that the average adult could cover ten kilometres in roughly an hour and a half, and by the size of the maybe-a-city in the distance they could have anywhere from fifty to seventy-five kilometres to cover. Best case scenario, this was the early morning and it was on the low end of the scale, so they might get close enough for him to flare his presence by nightfall. He’d figured out while visiting Sand Garden for the second time that he wasn’t strong enough for anyone to notice his flaring if they were more than two kilometres away._

_Worst case, it was closer to midday, they were on the higher end of the distance estimate, and they would still have hours to travel after stopping to sleep for the night._

_Dudley was a trooper though; as they walked he kept up a low stream of questions to keep their minds occupied, and they managed a good six or seven kilometres before he finally asked for a break. They drank some water and Harry peered into one of the strange holes they kept passing, unable to see the bottom of it. After about twenty minutes he urged his cousin to keep going, the lack of Fauna coupled with the nearby hole making him nervous._

_They made it another two kilometres before they finally ran into trouble. While skirting the edges of a particularly large hole –the width of a football field, Harry would guess –the ground beneath them began to rumble and quake, almost sending them both to the ground. Harry seized Dudley’s arm almost on pure instinct and dragged him back as far from the hole as they could get, and it was good that he did; for just then, a snake with a head the size of a car came up from the underground, accompanied by three smaller ones, and it saw them._

_Dudley froze in terror and Harry wasn’t too far off when the biggest one gave a low, rumbling hiss; despite all the places he’d been, Harry had no idea the first way to combat Snake-like Fauna. Should they run, play dead, freeze, could he hurt it with his Cells, were the babies more dangerous for their higher speed or would the larger one take great offense to its babies being hurt? All four looked to have rocks growing among their scales –a type of Boulder Fauna like the Corrosive Boulder Hawk of the Wul Jungle?_

_Regardless, as soon as the Fauna turned their way, Harry began a pre-shot routine and in the back of his mind had a plan to use his knife to release his blood, if it came to that. He was nearly finished, he hoped the snake wouldn’t dodge his touch, and when he reared back to launch a strike he froze in complete shock when the hissing shifted to actual **words**._

_A big part of instinct is drawing conclusions based on experience –with more experience, there’s a lot more you can handle without much thought. Harry had no experience with snakes, and not much more with attacking Fauna; but when someone spoke to him, he knew how to respond. He had met many different people in the past two years of his life, no two of them the same, in vastly different environments, and so when he heard a low, rumbling voice comment on his and Dudley’s presence near their home –he opened his mouth and spoke without thinking._

_“ **We’re very sorry for intruding!** ”_

_The snake drew up short, and even Dudley behind him gave a little jump of surprise at the hissing words that came out of Harry’s mouth. The three smaller snakes came a little closer, almost childish sounding hisses letting him know how surprised they were at the same time._

_“ **Did you just...**_ **say _something?_** _” The large snake lowered its head so it was closer to the ground, almost at eye level with Harry and Dudley._

_“ **I –I think so?** ”_

_“ **He did it again!** ”_

_“ **Mother, can humans even**_ **do _that?_** _”_

_“ **Not as far as I am aware,** ” The mother said. “ **This is most interesting.** ”_

_“Harry? What’s going_ on _?” Dudley whispered urgently._

_“ **I don’t –I** –I don’t know,” Gosh, switching back to English almost made him feel like he did after he’d made his ring. “Um, uh –we **–we don’t mean any harm!** ”_

_The mother snake scrutinized them, her babies still hissing excitedly about the unexpected development. “ **Oh, you’re human hatchlings,** ” She eventually said, like she simultaneously had known all along and yet was just realizing. Harry had a hard time telling the tone of her voi... hiss. “ **Tell me, why are you here?** ”_

_“ **We’re trying to get there,** ” Harry said, and he pointed at the city –the snake looked in the same direction but didn’t make any reaction, and Harry suddenly recalled that some snakes couldn’t see very far. “ **It’s a human city, but it’s far off.** ”_

_“ **You look small to have left the nest,** ” She observed._

_“ **Well, we’re a bit lost... our parents are in the city,** ” Harry tried to keep their situation as simple as possible. “ **We really**_ **are _sorry for disturbing you._** _”_

_The mother was quiet for a minute, and in her pause her three hatchlings slithered forward curiously, each twice as long as Harry was tall, resembling fully grown Anacondas more than babies. Dudley whimpered at the sight of them, but Harry heard them hissing questions at him, so he sent Dudley a reassuring look and told him it was okay. He convinced his cousin to sit on the ground with him so the hatchlings could inspect them easier; he grasped Dudley’s hand tightly even while he tried to keep relaxed._

_“ **What’s this on your head?** ”_

_“ **Are these called feet?** ” One asked while its tongue tickled at Harry’s hand._

_“ **What do humans eat? We catch Clay Worms.** ”_

_Harry giggled and tried his best to answer every question they threw his way, slowly getting used to switching back and forth from English to... Serpentese? Dudley relaxed in increments once he came to terms with the notion that the big, scary babies weren’t looking to eat them at the moment, the fact that Harry was trying to translate helping exponentially in that regard._

_“ **Alright, pipe down,** ” The mother said suddenly, and she rested her giant head on the ground a few feet away. “ **Hop on. I’ll bring you to the city.** ”_

_“ **Really?!** ”_

_“ **All I ask is that you tell the humans there that I did so, and that if they stay away, we’ll have no problems,** ” She requested, and Harry immediately agreed –he could see the logic in it, of course, and if trusting a reasonably calm Fauna would get them to the city **today** then he had no complaints. The hatchlings followed them up onto their mother’s head, curling around her boulder growths and both Harry and Dudley so they wouldn’t fall off._

_“Harry, how can you talk to snakes?!” Dudley called over the wind once the mother snake began to slither along –she slowed briefly every few hundred metres so Harry could tell her if she was still going in the right direction._

_“Would you believe I don’t **know**?!” Harry yelled back. He shrieked out a laugh when the mother snake sped up enough that she sailed over a smaller hole –he’d never had so much fun travelling, not even on the Gourmet Express train from Skill Garden!_

_The snake Fauna moved about as fast as a car on the highway, so that less than an hour later they were within a kilometre of the city. She stopped there, explained that she was unwilling to go any closer, and Harry spent a few minutes saying goodbye to the babies before the snakes slithered away, following the scent back to their nest._

_So Harry and Dudley turned towards the city, and Harry flared his presence a few times to try and get someone’s attention before they started walking. This close, they could see that it was no ordinary city –it looked desolate and half wrecked, a wall around its perimeter that was crumbled down in many places, rubble everywhere. There weren’t many more trees here than in the wide open landscape, and the few that were around were thick and sturdy, spiny underneath their leaves and only a metre taller than Harry at the very most._

_Just on the other side of the city from where they approached, Harry could see the mountain range towering above them, and to their right off in the distance was a bridge over a large expanse of water that looked just as dilapidated as the city but was obviously under construction in some areas._

_“Harry, someone’s coming,” Dudley pointed out, staring at a figure emerging from a great crack in the wall some thirty metres in front of them._

_The man that approached was in his twenties or thirties, with dark hair in a crew cut and scruffy but clean clothes. “What are you kids doing out here?” He asked, and stopped a few paces away from them._

_“Going into the city, sir,” Harry supplied easily, Dudley a little tense next to him –he didn’t deal with strangers much back in Surrey, so it was no wonder. “We were separated from my Otousan.”_

_“Well that’s not right. Come on, that entrance isn’t safe for kids,” He turned and headed slightly to the left, looking back briefly when Harry and Dudley didn’t immediately follow. “I’ll show you in, so hurry up!”_

_“Oh, of course, thank you!” Regardless, Harry kept a few steps behind the stranger, one hand in Dudley’s and the other on his hunting knife. “We’ve had quite an ordeal to get here.”_

_“Must have, if you came from the wastes. What’s your Oton’s name, maybe I know him,” The as-yet-unnamed-man picked his way around a particularly large piece of stone and disappeared from view for a moment. Harry became alarmed rather quickly when he came back into sight, an odd grin on his face, and Harry slowed down so he could see if there was a crack in the outer wall nearby. There wasn’t._

_“Takimaru, sir. Um, I do think we might be going out of our way on this route...” Dudley seemed to have caught his caution by the tensing of his grip; the man let out a great rush of breath._

_“The Gourmet Knight? Oh, I know **him**...” A sharp feeling pierced the air, a glint of metal from atop the rock, and Harry scrambled back the way they came with Dudley right there with him almost before he registered what he was doing, but they tripped and fell between two big rocks before they made it even two metres back._

_It didn’t matter in the end, because Harry then heard a click and a grunt of surprise, and when they looked up he saw that the man was frozen in place, a different man in a suit holding a gun to his temple nonchalantly. Up on top of the rock there were two more people, one a woman in a suit also holding a gun extremely easily up to the other’s head, a man with a knife clutched in one hand. She removed the knife from his grasp and kicked his legs out, sending him to the ground in a heap where he remained, presumably out cold. When the man in the suit turned to look at them, they saw he was missing an ear and wearing sunglasses._

_“Din, take over?” He requested, and the woman nodded silently before taking his place. The earless man came over and knelt down a couple metres away, raised his hands peaceably. “Hey, you’re Takimaru-han’s kid? We felt you flarin’ your presence –don’t worry, we’re Match-aniki’s subordinates. I’m Rum and that’s Din.”_

_“Why should we believe you? That –That man tried to say he knew Otousan,” Harry scooted back further and readied his free hand to nick itself on his knife, thinking that his Cells would be a better defence with just the one point of entry to their little nook. Rum nodded seriously, and in the background Din pushed her captive so he was facing the rock, her gun now pressed between his shoulder blades._

_“Ev’ryone in Nerg City knows Takimaru-han by now, Ha-kun,” Rum told them, and Harry jolted at the nickname. “And not all of ’em fav’rably, like that piece of shit. You know Match-aniki’s number, right?”_

_Harry nodded hesitantly –he had memorized it –though he hadn’t ever used it because Takimaru had stressed that it was the man’s private number and should only be used for_ absolute _emergencies. Rum rattled off a string of numbers and Harry drew a relieved breath when they matched up, and then again when Rum told him Takimaru’s personal number right afterwards._

_“Not many people got Match-aniki’s number, let alone Takimaru-han’s too,” Rum said reasonably. “C’mon kid, lemme bring you and yer friend here to the Don, and we’ll have yer Oton back in the city within a few days.”_

_It was very tempting and, as with the snake, laid out fairly logically; Harry would still be wary, but Rum and Din **had** presumably prevented that man from doing something bad, and Rum was aware of enough information to convince Harry to trust them in this. Staying out here much longer probably wasn’t a good idea, not even taking into account that by his hand’s clamminess Dudley might be going into shock._

_“...okay,” He agreed after a minute of deliberation, and he helped Dudley stand up with exceeding care. “We’ll go with you, Rum-san. Please understand that we’re especially nervous, though.”_

_“I’ll stay a few feet away, tell you what I’m doin’ ‘fore I do it,” Rum assured them, and then he turned to Din. “Catch up?”_

_“Gimme five minutes an’ I’ll be right behind you,” Din called back._

_“Okay yous two, if you’re ready,” Rum said, and he indeed stayed no less than a metre away from them at all times, except when Harry and Dudley accepted his assistance in climbing over particularly large pieces of rubble in order to reach one of the cracks in the city wall. When they were a few paces through the wall, Harry’s slightly more sensitive hearing picked up the sound of one, then a second gunshot from behind them, and he swallowed thickly._

_Rum kept a brisk, straightforward pace, although he did slow at times to say hello to passing construction workers and people Harry guessed were Gourmet Revivers by the insignia on their collars. A few minutes into their journey Din came up and joined them quietly, neither her gun nor the two men anywhere in sight –it was fairly obvious to Harry what happened._

_“Got somethin’ on the bandits o’er the south wall. It’s time sensitive,” Rum nodded and Din darted off again._

_“B-Bandits?” Dudley asked._

_“Those men were members. They hate the IGO, so they fuck up the relief efforts Match-aniki, Teppei-han an’ Takimaru-han been arrangin’ to get Nerg on its feet. They can’t understand that while we’ll take the IGO’s help, we **certainly** don’t fuckin’ like them either,” Rum explained, frowning deeply. “The area you were in’s at the edge of where they loiter about. We’re in the middle of dismantlin’ ‘em right now.”_

_“So that’s why he... why **did** he approach us in the first place?”_

_Rum looked like he’d rather not say. “Child recruitment –forcefully, usually. Former street kids like me take offence to that, ‘s you might guess.”_

_They made their way through the city and Harry took in how old and rundown everything was, and then just how many of the half wrecked buildings were in use and under construction at the same time. They passed a long, low hall that billowed the smell of rice and curry but also had scaffolding up so the roof could be repaired, a dormitory with people sitting in balconies while workers repaired missing sections of their foundation, a public park with a few kids playing around the adults moving big piles of rubble away._

_When they came up to a building that looked like it might have once been a three story hotel, Rum paused and very seriously informed them that this was the Gourmet Mafia’s main base and they were to be on their best behaviour. Though they agreed with little fuss, they betrayed their nerves by sticking close together; Dudley jittered faintly and his grip was tight, and Harry was only slightly better off because he knew that if this was really Match they were about to see, there wasn’t any reason to worry._

_Rum had them wait in the hall briefly while he explained the situation to whoever was inside –when he came back out he mentioned that he would call Takimaru while Match spoke to the two of them. And then he was off, and though he was nervous Harry tugged his cousin through the door to finally meet the mysterious man he’d heard so much about from Takimaru._

_“Was wonderin’ when yer jumpin’ about’d bring you ‘round here,” The man opened with. He was tall and broad, with slicked back blond hair and nay a square inch of his skin untouched by mottled scar tissue. He wore a cream coloured, beat up at the edges suit over a black dress shirt, and there was a sword casually resting on top of the desk he was leaning on. “Jus’ how long were yous two out in the wastes?”_

_“Um, nay but a few hours. Do you know of those big... Boulder Snakes out there?” When Match nodded, Harry went on. “Well, uh, they sorta gave us a ride... and wanted me to tell you? That they shan’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”_

_Match stared at him for a second, like he was trying to translate what Harry had said into another language, before he let out an amused huff and shook his head. “Yer jus’ like Takimaru, aren’t you. An’ who’re **you**? I don’t remember ‘nother brat taggin’ along.”_

_For a second Harry thought his cousin would be too scared to properly answer, but then Dudley cleared his throat and said, albeit meekly, “I’m Harry’s cousin, Dudley. I’m here by accident.”_

_“Hm. Alright,” Match glanced at his watch. “Rum will’ve called Takimaru by now, so in the meantime yous two’ll be taggin’ ‘long with a couple o’ my men and helpin’ the restoration efforts. We’re still rationin’ right now so don’t expect a feast, but if yous do what yer told you’ll be fed...” Match paused and eyed the way Harry and Dudley were going a little glassy eyed, practically holding each other up now that some of the adrenaline had drained from their systems. “An’ all that can wait ‘til tomorrow.”_

Vvv

During his first stay at the Chowlin Temple, when he’d gone by the name Han, Hamaru heard his instructors saying on occasion that he took to practicing Gratitude as a cat takes to swimming. It was an accurate comparison –even years later Hamaru would be hard pressed to say that it was any less so. Certainly it had become easier, his experience at the Columbarium, time and sincere dedication could do many wonders, but even now Hamaru could falter, he would cling to old memories of hurt when he should let them go, or dwell on the negative when he should think of the positive.

Often, Hamaru thought about his life and although it was difficult, reminded himself of the vast number of things he had to be grateful for. The opportunity given to him by Aimaru; the privilege of living at Simple Diet Hill, the love his father freely gave every day; the trust of his Combo Partner, new in formality but old enough that he could feel it simmer below his skin. That he had been treated unjustly by his aunt and uncle was a fact that he would never forget, but when he tried to, he could soften the old, bone-deep pain and believe, for a minute, that he had made the right decision in forgiving them.

He awoke in the morning with such thoughts already swirling in his head, but after eight years earnestly practicing the teachings of Food Honour he had leant how to turn those memories of his old life into something more positive, healthier. He blinked and half expected to see a futon in the corner opposite his hammock, but Dudley was currently asleep squished up next to him. They were both passed out on top of the covers on one of the beds, unwilling last night to take the time to inspect the room they’d been allotted before they collapsed; the strain of appearing in London particularly exacting after so long only travelling around the Human World. The thought of disturbing his Partner an unsavoury taste in his mouth, Hamaru settled for lying there for at least a few minutes, until Dudley’s own internal clock prompted him to wake up.

That Dudley was still here after returning to the United Kingdom was a big weight off his shoulders –in his darkest moments, Hamaru allowed himself to entertain the notion that his cousin would wish to go his own way as soon as he had a chance, regardless of how implausible it was in reality. In the eight years they had lived in the Human World together, his cousin had grown leaps and bounds, thanks in part to regular sessions with the Knights’ therapist the same as Hamaru underwent. Hamaru logically knew that Dudley’s early self-loathing guilt from the actions of his parents had eased into a burning need to prove himself, a loyalty to him that he still found incomprehensible at times, and a spine of steel that always, always made sure to tell Hamaru the truth. And if he asked, Dudley would be very upfront with his thoughts.

Even after eight years Dudley still had a long road ahead to get over his reservations, and Hamaru made sure to support him every step of the way.

It was easy, after so long, for Hamaru to see past the restrained temper, the bluntness he employed like a trap, the way he wrapped the ‘intimidating bodyguard’ persona around him like a shield –to see Dudley for what he was. It was easy to tell that his cousin, for all his composure, worried with the best of them and was protective to a fault, and that this situation they’d landed themselves in was wearing on him even after barely a day. That he was conflicted over something, and if not for their Agreement would be unlikely to bring it up himself –too much time hanging around Brunch-san indeed, if Hamaru had anything to say about it.

“Hrrmm... Hama?”

Hamaru shifted away slightly, sitting up so Dudley could move a little easier. “Good morn’.”

“Aye,” Dudley pushed himself into a sitting position and stretched; he let out an uncomfortable grunt when something in his shoulder gave a great crack. “I’ve slept on stone cushier ‘n that.” He commented.

“Yea, during the Last Hurdle,” Brief flickers of the Jiddalan Revolution coming back into his mind, Hamaru’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dark and he slipped his glasses on so he could check the clock –almost as soon as his gaze landed on it, a candle on the table next to the door flickered on by itself. “It’s a little after half five. Are you well, Dudley?”

“Been better,” Dudley scrubbed at his eyes. “Honest? Bein’ back in the U.K. ain’t on my wishlist.”

Yes, though sometimes it was hard to remember, Hamaru had a lot to be grateful for. The trust of his Combo Partner was just one of innumerable examples, but it burned brightest in Hamaru’s heart no matter the day; he may harp on Dudley for his stipulations in their Agreement, but when his cousin honoured his own he almost felt as if he could cry for his gratitude. His dearest request, the fifth of the virtues –Honesty.

“We are Partners –I do not presume to know better than you,” Hamaru waited for Dudley to nod. “But if it is my wellbeing which causes your hesitance, do not feel such. I have forgiven much, and while I shall go no closer to number four than Sri Guru Singh, I do not resent your desire to see your parents, Dudley.”

“That’s... some’ve it,” Dudley admitted. “I miss ‘em, love ‘em, too. But I’ve lost a lot o’ fondness since then. They’ll want me to stay, an’ I _won’t_ ,” Dudley reached for his hand in their usual manner of comfort, and Hamaru felt again his gratitude –his Partner was much more perceptive than others gave him credit for. “And what they said, ‘bout your birth Mum ‘n’ Da...”

“Is something I shall endeavour to verify. In any case, it is merely another slight from people whom have no hold on me any longer. I do think it shan’t change much in my mind,” Hamaru smiled a little sadly. “All the same, I shall be grateful to know they were good people.”

“I hope my Mum was lyin’, really I do... but Hama, without that bit o’ news? I don’t like this, period. Them callin’ you ‘Harry’, talkin’ war and it’s obvious they don’t got a clue about anythin’. We’re at a disadvantage.”

“Mm, this is true,” Hamaru sighed. “I am willing to forgive the use of my birth name to a certain point. If they did know my parents, it is understandable that some shall have difficulties; but I shall not hold with it if it becomes sheer rudeness. I know you worry, but this magic war business, while dangerous, is no more so than landing a child alone in the Lost Forest, and I did survive such.”

Dudley shuddered at the reminder. “ _Barely_ ,” He bit out, but then he calmed and scoffed. “ _Magic_ , what a load. If it ain’t Gourmet Cells I’ll eat my knife.”

“I’ve no doubt you shall, but perhaps I’ll make it edible first, dear cousin,” Hamaru teased, and Dudley rolled his eyes. “I do not mean to make light of it. These people are obviously in dire straits, and need any help we can spare. If you would allow, Partner, I should endeavour to see this conflict through.”

“You’re really set on this one, huh?” Dudley made a ‘what can you do?’ motion and huffed. “Sorted, but I don’t reckon there’s much of any Compatible Ingredients in these parts, let alone our Full Courses. Yours is a bare pain to get back home as it is, Mr. _Aura of Gratitude_ bullshit.”

“Perhaps, though I do recall a _Modest_ Consommé with a Capture Level Three rating...” Hamaru dodged Dudley’s half-hearted swipe and stood up; he felt significantly better now that they had spoken about their reservations. “Well, I do think I shall get ready. Do you want the washroom first?”

“Nah, y’go ahead. I’ll get Rhssa set up.”

Hamaru was glad to see a mostly modern facility when he inspected the washroom –he wouldn’t have complained about a setup similar to the Knights’ hot spring compliment, but _anything_ was better than the times they had been forced to bath in a river or go without as in Sand Garden. By the time he was done Dudley had set out a dish of water for Rhssa on account of her still snoozing away, and was currently finishing tidying the bedspread for one of them to sleep on the next night.

After eight years of living practically joined at the hip, they had their morning routine down to a ‘T’ –Hamaru finished his stretches, basic forms and morning prayers by the time Dudley came back into the room, and began his Food Honour meditation just a few minutes before Dudley did. His cousin didn’t practice as long as he did, so when he moved on to tying his outer cloth and re-wrapping his sash, Dudley was already up and moving around, which on a normal day would mean that he had started on breakfast, his favourite meal to cook. Today he was fiddling around with his bag instead, inspecting the bedroom they had slept in.

It didn’t amount to much –this group had stripped it of most particulars and neither he nor Dudley left anything lying around when they were on a trip, unsure exactly how long they would remain and unwilling to lose possessions if it turned out to be a short jaunt. By the time they were ready it was closer to seven than the half six they were shooting for, and Hamaru felt a little off-kilter when they made it downstairs and the only one awake was Hermione.

“I take it that breakfast is a later event in this household?” Hamaru asked, and Hermione made a noise of agreement from behind her coffee mug.

“Night time ops are skewing our schedule, some,” she gestured to the stove, where a large affair like one might see on a campfire was sitting, presumably full of the coffee she was in the middle of. “Help yourself. We normally won’t eat until eleven, and the meeting’s during. No snacking between then and supper; the Order’s funds can only take us so far until we work something else out,” Hermione instead chewed on her thoughts for a minute. “Sleep okay?”

“It was restful enough,” Dudley was already inspecting their food stores and making little noises of distress, so Hamaru stayed at the table to be polite. “Thank you again, for your hospitality.”

“It is the best we can do. I hope you’re prepared for the meeting –the rumour mill’s been going full stop and there’s no few people who will be curious of you,” Hermione let out a huffed laugh at the groan Dudley loosed, probably thinking it was in response to her statement and not whatever he had unearthed in the icebox. “Most of them should hold back at a _meeting,_ though.”

“I doubt so,” Hamaru replied good-naturedly.

“How many are even _coming_?” Dudley plonked his mug down on the table and then handed Hamaru a coffee made up just the way he liked it. “I need to plan out how many portions to make.”

“You’re going to _cook_?” Hermione sounded almost shocked.

“Are you kiddin’ me? You lot’ll be fit to bursting by the time I’m done with you!” Dudley exclaimed, coffee sloshing a little over the rim of his cup. “How many?”

“Including us, around fifteen. And Ginny will be watching the patients, who will also have to be fed at some point.”

Dudley made a strangled noise and immediately set to scribbling in his little notebook, while Hamaru turned back to his drink and their host’s amused visage. “If you would allow, I daresay cooking for so many shall bring Dudley a pleasure as no other task could.”

“It’s all his if he wants it,” Hermione said, watching Dudley as he shifted things around again in the cupboards, a half-grin on his face. Even Hamaru was a tad surprised –his cousin suffered his moods, but to see him so enthused at the prospect of cooking for a large group was surely tell of just how suited he was to his craft, and how much he missed such in their last several weeks roughing it in the Marcheron Grasslands.

“You mentioned ‘procedure’,” Dudley came back up to the table, a messy scrawl covering a full two pages of his notebook. “How do we get in ‘n’ out of here? I’m buying you fools proper food.”

Hermione straightened up and adopted a professional tone. “There are knocking signals to get back in, and no one leaves by themselves. Regular check ins are mandatory if you’re out for more than a day, and any missed ones mean that security is increased until the reason is found and any risk of being infiltrated is settled,” Dudley nodded his understanding, and Hermione’s eyes slid down to the Chef jacket and knife holster he was wearing. “And you leave in plain clothes. Nothing that could draw attention.”

“Sorted, let’s get on those signals then!” Dudley prompted, sitting back down. “Hama, you change first?”

“Yes, yes,” he supposed this group probably wouldn’t have a car if they were so down on food stores that Dudley made the decision to jump in like this. Upstairs, he surveyed himself in the mirror and had to admit that in London, he did make something of an odd sight.

His typical travelling fare was understated in the Human world; sturdy black flats with black canvas pants, his purple sash around his stomach, a green sleeveless shirt in the summer months with his backpack on his shoulders, and on his arms were the specialized bracers that were used in the Value style of martial arts he had trained in since the Human World became his permanent home. These he replaced with a less reinforced but more discreet version, where the metal strips were sewn inside the forearms of the sleeves in a sweater, and a pair of jeans along with a more casual style for his turban, in black instead of his favoured purple. There wasn’t anything to be done about his myriad scars, not that Hamaru felt the need –beyond that they would make him more recognizable.

On his way back to the kitchen he passed Ron’s infirmary and decided to ask after the patients’ dietary needs. Ron grumbled about being woken up –although he seemed to only be dozing at his desk when Hamaru knocked –but he answered Hamaru’s questions dutifully even so. Mr. Cattermole was extremely lactose intolerant, and the young man, Ernst, was a vegetarian who would eat fish and eggs on occasion, while in their own ranks Neville didn’t eat pork while someone named Kingsley was allergic to beetroot.

“Thank you. Dudley shall adhere to those parameters with the utmost care,” Hamaru promised. Ron waved him off and shut the door in his face, and when Hamaru turned to resume his trek downstairs he came face to face with Draco.

“Listen, Singh. You seem like an alright sort, an’y’ve already gotten welcomed an’ all, so I’ll give it to you straight,” The blond was dressed in the same clothes he had worn last night, and Hamaru wondered if he had even gone to bed. Nevertheless, Hamaru nodded for him to go on. “I don’t care what any of those other jokers get up to –they can take care of themselves. But if anything happens to someone in that infirmary, I’m not gonna care that you’n Black are related. You’ll find out _exactly_ why Granger lets me do what I want.”

“I shall give it pride of place, when considering my course of action in the future,” for a secret resistance group they had been remarkably accommodating, but Hamaru was inclined to understand Draco’s need to make his position clear to them even so. At least one of them had to be cautious not only for his own sake, but for all those within their organization as well as the countless civilians that could be put in jeopardy should their resistance to this Dark Lord’s regime disappear. Hermione was probably only letting he and Dudley leave the premises so they could be observed midst a task that, were they indeed some manner of spies, would not have dire consequences if they tampered with it.

“You do not know us, but if you wish a measure of our characters then hear this,” Hamaru said. “As Knights, we are holden to a duty of lending aid, the same as my father and his before him. All our other trappings shall roll off our backs like so much rain, none superseding that edict.”

“...We’ll see,” Draco muttered, but he clapped Hamaru on the shoulder before he entered the infirmary all the same.

While his cousin went up to change, Hamaru was taught the basic signals for re-entry into the backyard, as well as where they had a small magicked alleyway near a local park that they could use to lay low in should they need it. Hermione produced a map when Dudley returned and pointed out where the nearest supermarkets were before handing it over to them, and they assured her they would be back in time for Dudley to prepare breakfast before setting off.

“Cautious, cautious,” Hamaru said once they were out in the open, and Dudley nodded in agreement. It was still yet August, though autumn was beginning to show in the longer sleeves and puddles dotting the roads, an abundance of scarves and umbrellas in the shop windows. Dudley did not go to any of the places Hermione had suggested –instead he strode down several side streets and came out in one that was bustling with stands and people alike.

“I always _was_ better at hearing the Ingredients’ voices,” Dudley joked, although he was being generous –Hamaru couldn’t hear them to save his life. Dudley jerked his thumb toward a pawn shop nearby. “Let’s see if this works, yeah?”

“And what shall you do if it doesn’t?” Hamaru asked, amused.

“Pickpocket in a richer neighbourhood,” Dudley said frankly, and Hamaru snorted. “Figure I’ll talk to Longbottom about having some members workin’ non-magic jobs or try’n strike a deal with the farmers. Labour movement’s still goin’ strong I’d reckon, and we’ve got a good case.”

“’They shall not starve’,” Hamaru quoted, remembering with fuzzy detail that long miners’ strike when he and Dudley were young, the one which made Vernon so affronted and hostile at any mention of it.

The pawnshop they entered was deserted so early in the morning, and the lone employee looked half asleep at the desk. He heard the clink of the door opening, though, and made a valiant attempt to look busy until they went over to him.

“’Sup, mate,” Dudley greeted, and produced a manila envelope from his messenger bag. “Runnin’ low lately since I been laid off, need to sell a few of me Da’s things to ye.”

“Sorry to hear, you tryin’ for the dole ‘til you get back on your feet?” The employee said, although he accepted the envelope even so, and he tilted the contents into his palm. “They’re good quality, if a little tarnished. Mind if I look closer?”

“By all means,” Dudley crossed his arms and made to avert his eyes like he was uncomfortable with selling such things. “Waitin’ on the help, but it’s slow goin’. Should’a joined the union.”

“Next go, mate. Join up then,” the man finished looking through his magnifying lens and readied his scale so he could get a grasp on the weight. “Pay the dues and it’ll all come ‘round to ya. Higher pay, safety, sick leave.”

“Next job, yeah,” Dudley kept up.

When the employee started talking money, Dudley made a show of his reluctance and Hamaru had to almost turn away so he didn’t snort; in another life, Dudley would’ve been a superb actor. Finally his cousin gave a frustrated sigh and acquiesced, and left Hamaru briefly to sign some papers about the sale.

They didn’t do this very often –that is, sell off gold that Hamaru created with his Cells –and never without need of it. Despite it being less than stellar in the eyes of foreign policy, Hamaru had a reputation to uphold after all, so as such the only ones who knew about this dubious practice were Dudley himself and Ma-chichi, and the latter only because he had been the one to suggest it. Hamaru didn’t feel bad about it, far from so when it usually went towards feeding those in need, but veering out of his upstanding, professional leanings always left him a bit rebellious, the same feeling he got whenever he jumped back into the thick of grassroots organizing. It made him fondly recall the tents of Colinn’s resistance fighters back a year and a bit ago.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dudley said curtly when he exited the back room, wallet in his hands and a faux-regretful expression on his face that only lasted until they were back in the throng of people at the farmers’ market.

Freshly moneyed, Dudley took point in the buying of Ingredients because, and it really was true, he was far superior to Hamaru when it came to this aspect of their Partnership. His technique was exactly as Takimaru had always done during the shopping; a once-over of the entire place, noting down general pricing, quality and availability, and then mentally mapping out his route for the purchasing. Dudley did the first lap on his own with a request for Hamaru to find a few baskets or otherwise to carry their spoils in back to Grimmauld, because against all odds Hamaru carried his savings from his childhood around with him at all times, just in case. And it was as he passed the alley next to a second hand shop only a few minutes later that he saw it.

Hamaru found Dudley chitchatting with a young woman at a booth near the end of the street, the sizes and going rates of chickens in the market these days being the topic at hand. His cousin noticed him immediately when, on his approach, the wagon he was pulling behind him squeaked to a halt at his ankles.

“Where the fuck’d you get that?” he asked, and the woman behind the table swatted at his arm; he apologized.

Hamaru set the wheel brake and looked down at his little gift to the Order; he had seen it buried among the shop’s newest donations. It was made of greying wood and had fenced sides in faded green, the style as if it had once been used to tote children about. Although the handle was dented none of the wheels needed replacing, and it would bear a considerable amount of weight if Hamaru’s estimate was right.

“There is a fair shop, and my offer to fix their door did fit their liking, and so this came with it a good bargain,” Hamaru explained. “I did suppose it would be best, and yet all it needed was a fixed axle.”

“Which you already took care of,” Dudley concluded; he considered the wagon with a gleam in his eye, recalculating what they could carry with it now at their side. “You’re pullin’ it, Hama.”

And with that said, Dudley took advantage with incredible efficiency; over the course of an hour their wagon and then an arm basket as well were filled up with all sorts of items that would last Dudley far longer than Hamaru knew he was planning for.

A bushel of potatoes, dirty and brown but as firm as any could ask for, and another of peas; trays of eggs both duck and chicken, of every size because Dudley had asked after the extras they couldn’t easily sell; two kilograms of green beans; a basket of soft, sweet Valencia oranges; half a kilogram of lemons; some two baskets of assorted peppers, onions, and scallions. Then a half basket of tomatoes and an enormous coil of smoked sausage; a great wheel of cheese; fresh and dried pasta from a man near the middle of the street who threw in a few jars of sauce when he noticed their load of groceries. And from the young woman near the end of the street, several chickens and a basket of brussel sprouts no one was likely to buy; and then a last minute addition of two gallons of goats’ milk just before they were to head back.

The arm basket was full of spices that they had by luck been able to buy for discount in extreme bulk, given that this Order had a surplus of preserves –jams, pickles, sauces, oils –but was woefully underrepresented in the myriad of flavours one could tease out from paprika, oregano, marjoram, cumin, turmeric, cayenne...

“Did you clean out an entire _shop_?” Hermione asked, incredulous, when she met them in the backyard. She eyed the basket hanging off of Dudley’s arm, probably wondering where he was going to put everything.

“Nah, wouldn’t have the space for it,” Dudley said.

Vvv

By the time whoever was set to arrived for the Elevenses meeting, Dudley’s purchases had passed whatever tests Hermione could think to subject them to, and his first business of feeding the residents of the infirmary was over and done with. While he cooked for the rest of them, Hamaru sat at the table and shelled peas, and Hermione and Remus commiserated quietly over the newspaper; Ron sat in a stupor with his tea, and Neville had only just left to fetch Ginny, Draco and Sirius from wherever they had fallen asleep in the meantime.

Then the mudroom door opened and a rowdy pack of people poured in; men and women in robes and jeans alike, looking chipper or tired or somewhat on edge. All others at the table were greeted with slaps on the back and hearty hellos while Hamaru put to the side his basket; the members of the Order regarded he and Dudley curiously, but for the most part with openness. Strangley, none of _these_ Order members made any indication that they recognized Hamaru as Remus had the night before, and when Dudley looked closer he realized that Remus and Sirius were the oldest in the room.

“’Mione, we heard about the raid!” A pair of redheaded twins exclaimed together, and one slung an arm around her shoulders while the other elbowed her and smiled proudly. “You lot really stuck it to ‘em!”

“Alright there, Ron?” Another older redhead said, sitting next to –Hamaru would guess –his brother at the table. “Mum sends her love.”

People began to take seats at the table, so Hamaru helped Dudley pass out mugs and a steaming pot each of coffee and tea, which many murmured their thanks for. As little conversations started up here and there, Dudley set the first plates of toast on the table and began dividing and handing out the frittatas and homefries he had cooked up.

“I heard you had to think on the fly, there, Hermione,” A stout woman, maybe in her mid-twenties with dark skin and a welsh accent said. “I always said you had a top mind, didn’t I?”

“Thank you, Hestia,” Hermione said, almost bashful. “Neville and the rest should be down in a minute.”

“We all saw Sirius’ motorbike ‘round the side,” a girl from the doorway piped up. She was petite and walked with an airy grace, her white-blonde hair fanning out around her like she couldn’t be bothered to brush it. She blinked owlishly at Hamaru and Dudley. “A few new hands?”

“We’ll get to them, Luna,” Remus said.

“We’re here! We’re here!” Sirius called from the mudroom.

Within minutes the gathering fell into a practiced pace; they seated themselves and stopped fiddling with their drinks, dialled down the volume to the occasional whisper, and shuffled papers and pens and quills around with the restless energy of those who Had Things to Say.

“Okay, okay,” Neville said, and all attention turned to him –Hamaru and Dudley paused from where they were still standing at the stove. “We’re about to start the weekly meeting. As usual, none of the first guard will be attending. Tonks and Lee send their regrets tonight as well, due to increased surveillance in their areas –they’ve both told me they are working on a solution. Next, though we have no guests, I did officiate two new members last night. If you would give an introduction?”

Neville had spoken with them about this last night, so Hamaru stepped forward a little and kept himself a tad stiff, erring on the side of the elevated decorum that Aimaru had taught to him only for the most formal or uncertain of ceremonies.

“As we break fast this morn’, I do wish that ye feel full with gratitude and a splendid meal, and prythee never go hungry for either,” Hamaru made his posture straight, one hand at his stomach and the other behind his back, as a few of those before him exchanged glances. “I am Hamaru Singh, son of Taki son of Ai. I represent the Gourmet Knights, a Non-Profit Humanitarian Organization and Coalition of Gourmet Hunters based in Simple Diet Hill, and have been named Successor Presumptive of Aimaru son of Imen, the current Leader of the Gourmet Knights. This be Dudley Dursley, mine cousin and Combo Partner of whom I hold in highest regard, who be the sole apprentice to Chef Brunch of Mt. Tengu of the Hex Food Beast Knights.”

Hamaru bowed deeply, aware that Dudley did not shift from his position standing quiet and tall at the stove. “In the interest of openness, I tell thee the truth; I were once called Harry Potter, though time and want hath changed this. I beg ye refer to me only as Hamaru Singh, being my chosen, legal name, and if so I take my vow; I shall feel gratitude to an immeasurable degree and thusly hold no cause for ill will toward thee.”

“Verily,” Dudley finished blithely, while many at the table burst into noise.

“Harry Potter? Neville, are you sure-“

“-does look similar, eerily so-“

“-the guys who showed up at the Ministry?”

“I am indeed sure, yes they helped us at the Ministry, and can we all please quiet down,” Neville tapped the leather book in front of him on the table, and although some murmurs persisted, most of those around the table obliged. “In the interest of fairness, if anyone has any objections to their presence, please say so now.”

No one raised a hand, though a few members looked a tad hesitant. “Alright,” Neville paused to glance at Hermione, who Hamaru realized was taking the meeting minutes. “Singh, Dursley, please sit, and be included.”

“I trust everyone read the agenda for this week,” Neville shuffled through a few papers once Hamaru and Dudley were situated at the table. “For the benefit of our new members, I will go through it even so. You might as well start eating.”

Neville’s calm voice patiently plotted out the points of the meeting while everyone began to dig into the food, several members of the Order making little noises of surprise at the taste and complimenting Dudley with silent tips of their cups. No one had any objections to the agenda nor the minutes from last week when Neville asked for them to be raised, so he asked for a round of introductions to be made, so that Hamaru and Dudley would know just who they were going to be working with.

Hermione, who described herself as the head of staff and secretary; Ron, the primary medic; Remus, the treasurer; Fred, who, along with his brother George, consisted of the research and development team. There was Ginny, Ron’s sister and medical assistant; Sirius, who ‘kept an eye on the other side’, in his words; Hestia, who worked in the non-magical government as a book keeper, and Luna, who was a student at the main academy in their community. And from there still was Cedric formerly of the office for international magical cooperation; Bill, who ran a safehouse for the Order; Draco, who only said ‘special operations’; Dobby, a House-Elf who liaised with that population; and finally Neville, who simply said he was the officiator of members.

Undoubtedly a varied and busy group, who only continued to prove this assessment as they simultaneously ate, drank, and worked their way through the agenda for the meeting. Hamaru had to wonder who the absent ‘first guard’ were, and why it had become routine that they did not attend.

Their first order of business was addressing contacts they made outside of the current struggle; this amounted to a few each, some good and some bad, most not at the point where they had any clue as to how it would turn out. Hamaru gathered that this was their main method of recruitment at this stage, and that they were focusing their in-roads among the wider magical community in Britain –barring Hermione who mentioned the muggle workers in the area she was speaking with, and Cedric, who made an effort to state that all of his contacts were non-magical family members of students. As for larger recruitment efforts, when Hamaru brought that up, Neville said he regretfully had to delegate that effort to the ‘first guard’.

Next was a small lecture period, headed today by Luna, who had done extensive research into the current value of her school as a strong-hold against the Dark Lord’s regime. She outlined various defences both concrete and hypothetical, as well as the history of the school in past conflicts and how she would continue to engage the student body to be prepared to defend themselves in the event of an attack or attempted infiltration. Dobby weighed in on the topic heavily in the discussion afterward, as nearly all of the House Elves who lived in the bowels of the school were agreeable to defending it and its students should the time come.

Then the topics shifted back to the wider organized resistance. When it came to finances, Remus gave a small report but delegated to the ‘first guard’ again, although he was visibly irked to do so and many of the other attendees shook their heads as well. It then transitioned into operation reports for any initiatives the group had taken within the past week. Hermione’s raid on the Ministry was given pride of place in the discussion, as it was large, ambitious and, moreover, successful. But there was also space given to someone named Hagrid’s talks with the Giants on the continent, Fred and George’s latest invention that could give them an edge in any fighting, and the efforts by the aforementioned Lee to make the resistance radio he broadcasted more secure. Then it turned to upcoming initiatives; a new safehouse was being set up in the Welsh countryside by Hestia’s family, tentative meetings with the Goblins who ran their community’s bank, and someone named Viktor hosting a general solidarity meeting in Bulgaria.

The last few orders of business went fairly swiftly. There were appeals for safe passage by muggle-borns being fielded daily, and so escorts would have to be arranged; all members termed ‘second guard’ were expected to participate except in certain circumstances, and Draco would be talking to everyone within the next week, if not sooner. The lecture next meeting would be led by Remus and the topic would be the Werewolf perspective, and the next few after that were also tentatively planned out. Then, something Neville called a ‘rush meeting’ was scheduled for the end of the week. Once any further business was asked after, Neville pronounced the meeting finished and it relaxed into the chatter of any other large party that had just eaten and had no place to be for the moment.

Some people switched seats to be able to talk with others without raised voices, and so Hamaru ended up a little back from the table, once more with Sirius and Remus, although the latter mainly listened to them instead of contributing. Hamaru promised them a continuation of last night’s talk, and so he was obliged, but it wasn’t nearly so difficult as he was prepared for.

While Sirius –who revealed in short order that he was Hamaru’s godfather –had a trying time switching from Harry to Hamaru, he genuinely only wished to know about him and confirm his health. Hamaru found out that he had been in prison for _years_ before a news article on Hamaru’s disappearance forced his hand and he escaped, and since then, he and Remus had searched for any sign of him; that was before this second war had broken out.

Then Remus had cautiously confirmed what Hamaru had gleaned from an earlier statement; being that he was a Werewolf. Now, he noticed immediately the slight tension his –he supposed Uncle would be the best term –his Uncle gained as soon as the words left his mouth, like he was prepared for Hamaru to react unfavourably to this new information. If these people were to become his family, Hamaru would have to dissuade them of the notion immediately, and so he tried to take the reveal as gracefully as he knew how. By the slump of Remus’ shoulders as Hamaru described some of the denizens of Hex Food World and the Nitro his other uncles were acquainted with, Hamaru was glad to see he succeeded.

“Oh, we’ve had something of an atypical time of it,” Hamaru said to them once the conversation took a less serious turn, after Remus asked him where went to school; apparently his birth parents wanted for him to attend Luna’s Hogwarts. “Hence we settled there more permanently, we two were enrolled both in commune schooling and apprenticeships; Dudley has learnt under Brunch, a Chef from Hex Food World, and my grandfather has been teaching me all I am to know so to eventually take over from him. It is, of course, not a sure thing –I must prove myself capable, after all. But insofar as education, I believe we have received the best.”

“And –they treated you well?” Sirius asked, that aspect of Hamaru’s childhood being what he was concerned with the most. “They loved you, right? These... Knights?”

“My father does love me immensely,” Hamaru could say that now without even a sliver of doubt. With Aimaru, with Dudley, with Match, there were times his anxieties overcame his reason and he _did_ doubt, if only for a moment at a time. But there was no place for his dark thoughts when it came to his father, not after so long and so many days and talks and meals between them. “Otousan opened his home to me, fed and clothed me when I had no one else, and more than he made me his son, he made me his family, his priority. His father then became my grandfather, his lover my other parent, his friends my aunts and uncles, and he took Dudley in just the same.”

Hamaru glanced over at his cousin, who was deep in a conversation with one of the twins – _that_ probably wasn’t a good combination. And he smiled fondly, “I miss him and my home dearly, every instance I go without.”

“I’m –happy,” Sirius said. “And I’m selfish –I wish things had been different all this time. But I’m happy that you have that, Har... Hamaru.” He laughed, a little wetly as he shook his head. “I don’t know how much you want to know about them, but James and Lily loved you so much. They wanted the best for you, even while we were at war.”

“If they could see you, they’d be so proud of you,” Remus said in a sigh, leaning his head over onto Sirius’ shoulder. “How you’ve grown up from that little baby we saw last.”

“Thank you for saying this,” Hamaru said, sincerely. Were he a lesser man, he may have focused on the fact that he had never gotten to know these parents, or that his childhood had been ripped away from him by a war he only now was playing a part in. Or he may have turned callous, and told these men that he had no connection to the Potters and didn’t want to know about them now. But Hamaru instead chose the family he was _now_ gaining, maybe, and the cousin who was still by his side, and everyone who loved him from Monchy-ji to Ma-chichi and all else. And all the same, he was indeed so grateful to know that they were good people.

Hamaru was about to ask something more, perhaps about how his parents and them had met, but he was interrupted by a sudden shriek from closer to the door. Hestia backed away quite quickly, her eyes glued on something on the ground –Hamaru was a split second faster than the rest when it came to reaction, and he was out of his chair and scooping Rhssa off the floor and into his arms only moments before a cascade of angry red light hit the spot where she had slithered into the room. Hamaru defensively raised a hand to ward off the twitchy Order members, who he had gathered weren’t fond of snakes by more than the few muttered phrases throughout the meeting.

“Please, hold!” Hamaru exclaimed, turning away slightly so Rhssa wasn’t immediately visible. “I know we have misstepped in some manner, but I implore you, Rhssa is like my own child! She is of no danger to you all.”

As if to illustrate his statement, Rhssa hesitantly wound herself up and around his neck, well aware that the room was tense again, her once odd, gel-like scales no longer even a blip on his radar. Nevertheless, a few of the occupants of the room still looked ready to shoot him until Draco spoke up.

“We saw the lil’ thing yesterday, you guys can calm down,” he said almost flippantly. “But Singh, maybe keep an eye on her? Everyone gets a lil’ jumpy ‘round snakes here.”

“Yes, of course,” Hamaru acquiesced –he should have known better than to leave her to her own devices for long. “But, permit me, how _have_ we misstepped? Snakes are not such uncommon companions that they should be feared.”

Someone at the table snorted, and Remus was the one to answer. “Snakes are disliked because they’re _his_ symbol, and that of his followers. They had a bad reputation even beforehand.” He looked down at Rhssa, and to Hamaru’s relief his eyes were wary, but curious instead of angry. “And there was a giant snake, a Basilisk that was loose in the school five years ago, attacking students.”

“By Acacia, how awful. Well, I shall take the opportunity to assure you all,” And here he turned to face the table, and encouraged Rhssa to settle on his palms so that the Order could see her in an unthreatening position. “My dear Rhssa is, simply put, an unusually reasonable toddler, and a vegetarian to boot. Mayhap it would also soothe you to know that, as a Coarse Slug Snake, she is genetically closer to a Slug in reality.” There was a second of silence, so Hamaru addressed Rhssa directly. “ **Were you hungry, love?** ”

There were further reactions to his words, and abruptly Hamaru took a step back, until Hermione barked for everyone to calm down. He was not called upon to make an explanation as of yet, and so he decided he was going to be hopeful, and he straightened out one of her frills as calmly as he could and sat again with Remus and Sirius, letting Rhssa down onto the table top when he saw Dudley make for the icebox in anticipation of Rhssa’s answer.

“ **Yes, Me-Rhssa hungry! Him-Du’ not there.** ” She was polite enough to stay near him and smart enough to know that she was being observed by the room. “ **Me-Rhssa did bad?** ”

“ **Not bad, it was just the wrong time,** ” Hamaru soothed. “Thank you, Dud,” he said when his cousin handed him the small plate of assorted vegetables. Hamaru was acutely aware of the conversations around him resuming, quieter now as people remained a little off balance. “ **It is going to taste a bit odd, Rhssa, but it is what we have.** ”

“ **Me-Rhssa will eat, ‘Ru!** ” She declared easily. “ **Me-thank, Du’!** ” She set upon the tomatoes, radishes, and lettuce with a single-minded relish, and from where Dudley resettled by one of the twins, he made a noise of approval.

“ **Good, small one,** ” he said.

 _That_ was enough to gain back everyone’s attention instantly. Dudley’s forced relaxation dropped in the face of scrutiny and Hamaru was worried again that they had walked blindly into another minefield –was this some form of PTSD? Or just years of negative conditioning? Hamaru was used to being the centre of attention back home due to his position as Aimaru’s heir, but this was far more uncomfortable than any IGO meeting he had attended in his life.

“Erm, Granger...?” He blurted out the first name that came to mind, and the woman blinked out of her own stare at being addressed.

“You... you _both_ spoke Parseltongue,” she said, as if they knew what that meant. “That’s rarer than rare, and you heard what Remus said about the bad press around snakes. And Dursley’s non-magical, he shouldn’t even be _able to._ ”

“Oh, is Parseltongue what it’s called? It is just as rare in my home, so I always just said I was ‘speaking serpent’,” Hamaru un-tensed only slightly. “To be clear, Dudley and Rhssa aren’t exactly using it, more a close dialect. It is enough that we can understand each other, and since she is young she will pick up more as I teach her. Dudley learnt how to speak it a little from me but mostly because if Rhssa wishes to be fed, Dudley is whom she needs to speak with.”

“That’s actually fascinating,” Ron said, a gleam brought back to him in the face of knowledge, and a few of those around the table murmured hesitant agreement. “You said she’s like your kid?”

“I found her two years ago, after the floods killed much of the local population of her species,” Hamaru absently straightened another frill. “I have raised her since. My other companion, a Gopher Cow named Bonnet, is too large to travel along with us when I phase away, but Rhssa doesn’t have that problem. I do apologize for the fright I gave you all.”

“You didn’t know,” Sirius immediately defended, and as if to make a point he scooched his chair closer to where Rhssa was laying on the table. “She is... cute,” he said tentatively, and Remus also moved closer, made a noise of agreement. Abruptly, Hamaru was glad for the fact that he would have a few more years yet with Rhssa at this manageable length –he did not wish to know how these wizards would react to her six foot long adult size.

From his statement, the rest of the Order calmed down significantly, as was the trend that Hamaru had come to expect; Hestia did speak to Neville for a minute, but she too soon lost her nervous look and relaxed after a few minutes. Eventually Rhssa finished her meal and took it upon herself to snooze away, lightly wrapped underneath Hamaru’s collar, and for the rest of the meal Hamaru stayed where he sat, chatting idly or seriously with his newfound Uncle and Godfather, and wondered for the first time how he was actually going to help this endeavour that he had pledged himself to.


	2. Chapter 2

SPOILERS

Content Warning; kind of a graphic death of a bit character.

It quickly became apparent to Hamaru that, regardless of who the ‘first guard’ they occasionally mentioned were, the four teenagers he interacted with most in this house were in fact the pillars of this entire resistance.

Hermione ran the house and the affairs of her comrades, along with any initiatives they wished to undertake as well as the communication between different sections of their effort when they crossed over. She was precise and often unyielding, but due to her stress on the importance of proper procedure it was likely that she had made or seen mistakes in the past and now was determined to prevent them happening again. The sheer amount of work she had to handle on a daily basis dwarfed even the paperwork that Aimaru dealt with as the head of a non-profit, and many times Hamaru found himself marvelling at how she kept herself so organized and up to speed when she, as the others, rarely left the base except in cases like that of the Ministry.

Draco was a mystery, but a necessary one; as he described, he ran every ‘Special Operation’, which again seemed to have something pointedly _not_ to do with the ‘first guard’. The Ministry job had been his plan from the beginning, and by the few times Hamaru had seen him late at night pouring over notes and charts and old books, it was likely he was involved in a number of other initiatives at the same time, though not the same ones Hermione fielded. Draco was often with Sirius and Remus and even more frequently on the phone, and Hamaru had a hunch that what he really oversaw were the more unsavoury portions of the Order’s efforts. Despite their contrasting personalities, Dudley even got along with the blond, telling Hamaru later than Draco was interested in the Nerg Uprising and other examples of revolutions the Human World had to offer.

Ron was the primary medic, to be sure, but it was also apparent that he contributed to the upkeep of the housework and the tactical decisions in their initiatives, along with being Dobby’s favourite person. He was the hermit of the four, always in his infirmary or in a back room cleaning, and he was also the least personable of them all. Several times Hamaru had walked in at the wrong time and faced down not the medic he had been searching for, but an infuriated dragon stuck in the redhead’s body –it was swift learning to figure out that the infirmary was to be avoided when missives came for Ron sealed with red wax. But then, Ron also seemed to be the one the other three were most protective of; not by any stretch due to his disability, but in regards to the lapses in his concentration, and the times when he lapsed _into_ his focus so completely that he could do nothing else. It was so much so that Dudley had needed to physically wrench Ron away from his knee to get him to answer his questions before the medic set upon repairing the damage.

And then there was Neville –the officiator of new members, but if Hamaru was a gambling man he would put money on the other teen being the leader of this entire effort as well. It was clear in the deference the ‘second guard’ afforded him when he spoke, in the way he held himself and carried out his work; he was always at the kitchen table or around when someone was looking for an extra hand, and never unavailable when a word was needed regardless of what he had been doing up to that point. He was also the one to maintain the garden out in the back, and despite his quiet nature made the effort to include Hamaru and Dudley in any discussion he started –thus, Hamaru began spending a bit more time in Neville’s presence so he might be able to contribute in _ideas_ if not yet in action.

The only time Hamaru saw his composed manner break was when Remus informed him of someone named ‘Mundungus’ falling off the map, and Neville had literally shattered the glass he was holding in his hand. He had then calmly stood up, flicked his hand to rid it of glass shards, and very, very quietly asked for the House Elf named Kreacher to meet him in the backyard before he stormed out of the room without another word.

A quiet week had gone by, all things considered, as they settled into this new place and these new people they were beginning to learn. Dudley quickly took over the kitchen on a more permanent basis when he caught Draco attempting to cook a hamburger to ash, and this move was met with no complaints whatsoever –Hamaru couldn’t help but be proud of this, for it meant that the members of the Order knew from only a single meal that Dudley’s cooking was worth its weight. Dudley had also convinced Neville to include him in discussions on the finances of the group after the ‘rush meeting’ had passed, and Hamaru was sure it was only a matter of time before his notion of getting members employed in non-magical workplaces was up and running, or at the least being planned out.

Hamaru, for his turn, was helping out in small ways. His transmutation techniques were quite useful in the repairs of the house, and despite their initial reluctance, his suggestion of the employment of snakes as spies or couriers –if he was able to convince any of them, that is –was eventually accepted as a possible avenue. He helped Dudley with the food and cleaned with Remus and chattered on with Sirius while they maintained his motorbike, and as he spoke with them more and more, the four of them –Neville, Hermione, Draco and Ron –stood out to him as those most invested in this fight, by far. The others, they were dedicated, surely. But those four held up the effort like no one else.

The rush meeting came upon them suddenly; one sleepy morning there were the usual people drinking the coffee, eating Dudley’s meal and talking strategy, and then come the afternoon an entirely new score of people were crowded inside the house, coupled with the dozen or so that came to weekly meetings but didn’t live Grimmauld Place themselves. It was dizzying how many more people there were –and when Hamaru actually had the time to stop and look instead of running around for Dudley, he noticed that just about every person in the ‘first guard’ that had shown up was his godfather’s age or older.

The food had nearly all been served when the last of the new group arrived –an extremely old man, with a long beard and brightly coloured robes whose one hand was shrivelled up and black from the mid forearm down. He took the empty seat at the head of the table with a small hello to those on either side, and stared at Hamaru for a long minute before he so much as acknowledged the meal Dudley placed before him. And it turned out Hamaru had been wrong about this Order’s leadership –Neville would suit them better, but it was Dumbledore who commanded the entirety of the First Guard and thus the whole group.

It also became clear that the professional nature with which Neville ran his weekly meetings was not what this new group subscribed to. The meeting was split into four rough periods –a half hour after the meal where they talked about everything _except_ their resistance effort, followed by an hour where ‘general discussion’ took place. Then Dumbledore and his First Guard would take over the kitchen for an hour and have everyone else leave –and then there would be a closing remark period for fifteen minutes before everyone was to head back out.

Over the course of the discussion, Hamaru took note of a few things in those the others called the ‘full-timers’ –the people in this Order who, for whatever reason, couldn’t leave Grimmauld Place as frequently as the others.

“We coordinated with Bill and the Westburghs to get the muggle-borns out of the Ministry safely,” Hermione said in explanation to a young man’s question on what their longer exit strategy was. “The portkeys were provided free of charge through a contact of Dedalus, and within the next few days we’ll have a place in the houses for the four whose Portkey malfunctioned-”

“A malfunctioning Portkey? My girl, you must be more careful with magic of that calibre, not the least to say of untrustworthy suppliers,” A tall, brooding woman boomed from down the table –from across the way, Dedalus winced at the slandering of his contact. “And to bring them to _this_ house? Any one of them could say the wrong thing once they leave.”

“Now, Augusta, that’s too harsh. They did a good job getting the Portkeys where they needed to go,” A bald, dark-skinned man interrupted. Hermione was stone-faced in her seat, and the crease between her eyebrows grew deeper when he said nothing more on the subject –as if they had just been glorified couriers.

“In my opinion, the only oversight –or should I say, _the_ oversight in this, was that Malfoy burst a pipe in Yaxley’s office instead of doing what he was told,” said a grizzled man with a fake eye. “The whole thing could’ve gone up in smoke from that alone. I told you last time he should be paired with someone until he learns discipline.”

“Prick deserved it,” Draco muttered under his breath, something Hamaru hadn’t seen from him before –his impression of Draco was that he would shout his displeasure at your feet if he couldn’t reach your face. “And I _do_ have discipline you washed out-”

“Draco,” Ron murmured, half rising out of his seat to place a calming hand on the blond’s elbow.

“Don’t, Ron, I’ll get it for you,” Ron’s father said off to the side, gently pushing his son back into his seat and –obviously under the wrong impression of what his son had been going for –grabbed him a glass of water.

“Uh, we’ve –developed a new powder, right Fred?” one of the twins suddenly said, elbowing his brother. Fred, if George was to be believed, blinked in confusion for a second before his eyes fell on a fuming Ron a few seats away and he caught up instantly.

“Yeah, oh, right, how could we have forgot?” Fred slapped his forehead comically. “We did, it’s a powder that can help with blending into the background –like an instant forget-me charm if you don’t have your wand!”

“It’s just about done, almost no testing left at all,” George said, smiling brightly. “We thought you’d wanna know if you’re planning any infiltrations in the future?”

“We aren’t, at the moment. And perhaps we should wait until it’s developed, to be sure,” said a severe looking woman from next to the leader. “Thank you however, for the idea.”

“That’s what you said about the darkness powder, and we’ve _triple_ certified that,” George protested. “We worked hard on these, you could at least-”

“Maybe instead of working on tricks, you should practice your duelling skills!” A portly man down the table scoffed. “Death Eaters won’t wait for you to open a bag of powder!”

“Their inventions have helped us more than flinging spells around willy-nilly!” Draco snapped.

“This is why I think you’re _too young_ ,” the Weasley matriarch lamented. “This is exactly the kind of talk that downplays the seriousness of the situation.”

At that, Neville straightened up. “No one is _downplaying-_ ”

“Now, now, everyone, let’s calm down,” Dumbledore cut Neville off, and with him the entire argument. “Rescuing the muggle-borns from the Ministry was a good endeavour, regardless of mistakes made. That is what we should take from this. Now, on to other matters...”

The Order’s leader steered the assembled group into discussing the other initiatives they had undertaken, or were going to. Hagrid briefly spoke on his talks with the giants, but ultimately decided that they weren’t going very well, even with someone named Olympe’s help. Several of the people revealed themselves to be teachers at the school Luna attended, and their contributions amounted to ‘warding their respective Houses’, whatever they meant by that. Then one Alastor Moody –the wizard with the missing eye –detailed his so-far unsuccessful attempts to contact those former colleagues of his which he said ‘owed him a favour’. There was talk of tracking down Mundungus; there was speculation on the movements of the Ministry as of late; there was mumbling about ‘taking back St. Mungo’s’.

There was no talk of contact work in the way Neville’s meetings dealt with them, nor on the question of larger scale recruitment they previously thought would be covered in this meeting. There was no mention of reaching out to the bank, the solidarity campaign in Bulgaria, or Lee’s work on making the radio more secure. Hestia’s family’s new safehouse was not given any acknowledgement, the safe passage appeals from around the country gained some discussion but no further plan of action, and there was no lecture period.

By the time the first-guard-only portion of the meeting came around, Hamaru was wondering what in Acacia’s name he had just sat through.

“Drawing room,” Neville said, and everyone who had been asked to leave complied, following the teenager up the stairs and into the large room on the second floor. The group was sizable compared to those who stayed in the kitchen with their Leader, consisting of all of those who attended the weeklies as well as a few that Hamaru and Dudley hadn’t met before.

Neville laid out his brown ledger and stood at the side of the large table in the middle of the room, and beckoned everyone to join him –there were no chairs available, and so the entire group stood stiffly shoulder to shoulder, waiting for Neville to address them. Neville looked like he was trying to physically reign in his frustration at how the meeting had gone, his jaw tight and his fists clenched tightly on the table top.

“I have some remarks to add,” he said through his teeth.

Vvv

Contrary to what some might say, Dudley’s mind was not a colander that filtered everything out and left only Ingredients behind. Moreover, this magical business wasn’t the grit he was trying to rid his leeks of; he may not be too fond of the whole ‘magic’ concept, but he was stuck with Hamaru in the thick of things of his own choice and he _did_ pay attention when he felt it was warranted.

So he was well aware that Neville Longbottom was _pissed beyond belief._ The normally unflappable de facto leader of this little resistance cell had been annoyed at the start of the ‘rush meeting’, increasingly incensed over the course of it, and was now seething with barely contained fury in the middle of this drawing room. Dudley had been around people who could back up their talk for long enough that he knew when someone was about to blow their top in a major way, and to be honest –Dudley couldn’t _wait._

“Firstly, I want to acknowledge Professor Dumbledore’s impressive management technique. Clearly years in the wizarding bureaucracy has granted him the ability to make tiresome and inconvenient initiatives appear progressive and effective. It seems he won the last war by boring Grindelwald into prison.” The air in the room was still tense, but a few people let out nervous chuckles at Neville’s blunt assessment, which Dudley guessed was what he was going for.

“Secondly, all of you have done admirable work in the weekly branch meetings, and in the fight at large, despite being ‘too young’,” Neville seemed to calm a little as he switched back to offering feedback. “Draco, _your_ _plan_ for the Ministry, as you know, was a resounding success, not only in the rescue but also in the acquisition of a Horcrux. Hermione, many would struggle with the situation you found yourself in, but you remained cool headed and worked with what you had; the portkey malfunction was not the fault of you, Dedalus, or Dedalus’ contact. As we are all well aware, there are no safehouses in the immediate vicinity of the Ministry –taking the muggleborns you rescued here was the only option, and you chose correctly. That _is_ an oversight on our part, and I would suggest we rectify that if we plan on doing any further operations nearby.” Then he briefly addressed the twins. “Fred, George, if you would focus your testing on the notice-not powder, I already have a few ideas for how to incorporate it.”

“Thirdly, I know that this situation must not be heartening to any of you,” Dudley noted that Neville’s constructive assessment had only lightened the unease in the room so much. “When it first began, I tried to take the gradual approach. You trusted me, and we held a vote amongst ourselves, and so we stayed and tried to turn the tide of the rest of the Order from the _inside_. I am sorry to say that we have not succeeded.”

He turned to Hermione, and when she nodded, Neville let out a breath. “We cannot win the war this way. We cannot split our attention between what Dumbledore thinks is important and what _actually is_ , not when we are so small and weak –and we will not grow if we remain divided on this question. I hope you all paid attention to how that meeting went; that will be the rest of this war, until we die by Death Eater hands, unless we make our decision _now._ ”

There was an unhappy murmur around the room as people took what Neville said and conferred on it. Remus had a hand on the shoulder of a woman who looked ready to cry from frustration and whose hair was bleeding different colours, while his other hand was wrapped around Sirius’ elbow where he was turned to face the door, a stormy look in his eye. All five Weasley siblings were tensed like they would snap at the drop of a hat –the twins were fiddling with small bags of powder in their hands, Ginny’s arms were crossed and her back hunched, Bill and his wife were turned to Ron, talking to him in whispers. Hestia was frustrated, Cedric looked betrayed, Dobby nervous and Lee impatient, and all of them along with everyone else were waiting for Neville to continue.

Dudley had _paid attention_ to that meeting. Beyond being ungodly unproductive –they didn’t even have someone taking _minutes_ –it broke the basic tenants of effective organizing standards at every turn. Interruptions abounded, topic-switching was rampant, and the eldest members of the Order apparently thought it was helpful to belittle the contributions of the younger members. The completely unstructured debate period and lack of progress on the war front were only the bare bones of what was wrong.

What really pissed _Dudley_ off was what was happening right now, two floors down; the hour long meeting that was designated for only a third of the Order, probably the reason this group here made the ‘first guard’ distinction in the first place. It wasn’t only undemocratic, depriving more than half the Order of their involvement in the discussions, planning and decisions that were undoubtedly going on, but it was downright untrustworthy. Neville’s remarks on Dumbledore’s bureaucratism made sense when you looked closer at his behaviour –secretive, borderline elitist, and explicitly top-down leadership. Dudley had a sneaking suspicion that Dumbledore was the type to veto a decision that garnered over half the vote if he didn’t agree with it, if he even gave the option of a vote in the first place.

“There were those who were unsure when this motion was tabled a few months ago,” Neville acknowledged. “We voted upon, and enacted, an extended period to make the decision, and I believe it has been sufficient. I would now like to put forward a deciding vote. We will have a proper discussion beforehand, and follow on what the majority decides.”

“Pardon, but what exactly is this undertaking you speak of?” Hama interrupted.

“...shit, we forgot about you two, sorry,” Draco said, his face pink in embarrassment.

Ron looked at Hamaru and Dudley specifically. “Singh, Dursley, you’ve basically come into our midst at the worst time. We’re about to vote on whether to split from the Order.”

“That... _does_ seem a significant decision,” Hamaru offered. “If we are to be included in the vote, a discussion would be welcome.”

“Anyone we count as a comrade is entitled a vote.”

“In that vein,” Hermione was already taking the minutes.

“I would like to invite a speakers list,” Neville said. “We have limited time, so while I do not wish to curb your ability, please let’s keep things concise.”

“...Sirius, then Cedric, and then Luna.”

Sirius turned back around from where he had been watching the door. “I’ll be straight with you all; it might not seem like it, but Dumbledore is one hell of an effective leader. Something may have ended the last one early, but he was on his way, and he _did_ end the war against Grindelwald single-handedly. If we split, we lose a heavy hitter both in influence and spell-casting. Our recruitment pool will shrink because people won’t take us as seriously.” Sirius laughed harshly. “But still, it’s you guys I’m throwing my lot in with. In the last war, near the end, we were all getting angry about the exact same things –the bureaucracy, the secrecy, the lack of communication, and we didn’t have the balls to break off, even if we did do things on our own to some extent. We lost a lot of people because of the decisions that were being made back then, similar ones to what he’s doing now. So, whatever’s decided, Grimmauld Place is behind it, Neville, don’t worry about that.”

Neville inclined his head in silent thanks, and after a moment Cedric spoke hesitantly. “I... only joined up originally because of Warrington. I thought, well, that’s it, right? He’s gone, and that could’ve been me, and I have to do what’s right,” he was quiet for a second. “But _nothing’s happening_. If it weren’t for what the weekly branch is doing on its’ own, I don’t know that we’d be in even half the position we’re in now. Those muggleborns at the Ministry would be in Azkaban, probably, and Umbridge would still have a Horcrux, and there’d be no radio to coordinate through! I’m not just going to sit around and wait for some great wizard to change things when he thinks the time is right.”

Hermione waited a second, and then said, “Luna, and then we’ll have George, then Dudley.”

“In my fourth year, we as students had to organize our own education and defence against who we now know is a high member of _his_ cabal,” Luna’s wide stare was a little disquieting, but Dudley saw a lot of people around the table nod in agreement. “The Order was up and running, then, and many members were actively teaching at the school. They did nothing, and that nothing has continued up to now. I would say that if we _don’t_ split, we are actively choosing the path of failure, and thereby have no business saying that we want to oppose his tyranny.”

“In response to Sirius, I want to say you make a good point on Dumbledore’s ending of basically two separate wars,” George said. “That’s extremely true, and if he actually _led_ more effectively maybe we wouldn’t have to be reminded of that. But he doesn’t, and there’re two explanations for that. Either he did it all on his own those two times and so the Order is moot, in which case why hasn’t he ended it now? Or all the actual work is being done in those First Guard only meetings, which means he’s keeping _us_ all uninformed deliberately for some reason, and I can’t say if one is better than the other. I hate either option and I think we could be a much more effective organization without having to deal with their last minute ‘rush meetings’, miscommunication, and disregard for security clearance which leads to people like Mundungus.”

“Dudley, and then the list is open.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dudley saw Hamaru take a steadying breath in preparation for what he was about to hear. “None of you people have any clue what you’re doing, do you?”

There was a smattering of protests from a few members, but Dudley wasn’t about to give them a break; he smacked his hand down on the table and glared something fierce at the assembled Second Guard. “No, you all need to hear this. You wanna know what _really_ wins wars? It’s not piddly movement-building that’ll fizzle out in a few weeks, or secret guerrilla societies that do everything under the cover of night. It’s _coordinated action._ It’s _solidarity!_ Its bein’ faster an’ better an’ _dirtier_ than the other side and takin’ any help you can get, because tomorrow it might all go to hell.”

“Back home,” Hamaru spoke up with a nod from Dudley. “It is an ill story. In Sand Garden, the people rallied together in the hundreds of thousands and did take down their corrupt government, but without a solid leadership the new became just so bad as the old. And yet as well, the unrest caused the entire region to destabilize,” Hamaru smoothed one of Rhssa’s frills down to try and calm himself. “In Hankha-Nakh they assassinated the dictator following several years of bloody oppression; hence all should be solved, yea? But the military government that he had built up was still in power, and being that the rebels had not the active, informed support of the people... well, t’was easy for the June-Ga to spin them as terrorists.”

Dudley scoffed. “You’re better than Dumbledore, Longbottom, but at this rate you’re all going to lose, scatter, or die.”

There was silence for a full minute –none of them had expected the night to take this turn.

“What would _you_ suggest, then?” Ron asked. “So our best is useless, we already had that inkling. But we still have to _try_ , even if we all die in the end.”

“Your best isn’t _useless_ , it’ll just ultimately fail,” Dudley declared bluntly. “And _my_ suggestion? You better not hear what I say and then fuck off right back to what you were doing before.”

“We won’t,” Hermione said, and more than half the other members nodded in agreement, so Dudley acquiesced.

“First off the bat, Longbottom, you’ve gotta get finances under control.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dudley saw Remus nod decisively. “If you’ve got assets stuck in that bank, get ‘em out and use ‘em for the effort, at least until you can get some people stably employed and contributing. Next, you arm yourselves with a bit more than a wand each –one shot to the hand and you’re dead, full stop. Third, you gotta expand, rapidly and aggressively, and leave this secret shit in the gutter.”

“Break the statute,” Neville said, no indication of whether he was for or against the idea in his voice.

“Laws aren’t there to protect the people, they’re around to protect the interests of the ruling class,” Dudley proclaimed. “They’re tryin’a _kill_ you, and every single non-magic person they set eyes on! What d’you care about a law that helps them? Fuck that!”

“The way revolutions happen, truly and effectively, is the movement of the masses under a clear and trustworthy leadership,” Hamaru interjected; it wasn’t quite the same situation, to be sure, but the points could still be applied somewhat. “To seize control of your own lives and prevail, you as a group must first patiently explain your plight, and in the meantime make allies among like minded groups, ensure the safety of the people, and work so that one day you may give clear direction to the whims of the majority.”

“And it’s nearly always failed when you start buildin’ _during_ the conflict. So you have to be prepared for this to take years,” To their credit, no one really balked at Dudley’s stipulation –in fact, they all looked even more worked up than they had in their burned fury from the meeting. “When we were younger, we got caught up in the middle of the Jiddalan Revolution –the Mafia and the citizens united together and forced the intruding, oppressive foreign governments out, and even _now_ they are rebuilding. Even close to seven years later they are defending themselves, and the slightest slip could mean it all falls around them.”

“I am not telling you its impossible –far from it. But you better be fully prepared to sacrifice all you have, to live this life for years more, and do it all on your own. There will be no first guard to back you up if you split with ‘em now. You could still lose comrades, or family, or lovers. And you could still fail.” Dudley huffed. “But honestly, y’guys already have a pretty good start. And compared to those fuckin’ pricks down there, you’re not so bad.”

“A shining endorsement, I assure you,” Hamaru piped up cheerily, and that finally broke the depressed air about the room. Half the room laughed a little, and then all of them at once started clamouring for Neville to call the vote –no one else wanted to speak.

“Okay, okay, we’ll take the vote now, if you all want it,” Neville said, a bit of amusement back in his tone. “All in favour of splitting from the Order; to build on the basis of solidarity, sacrifice in the name of our cause, and the defeat of those who would destroy everything we hold dear?”

Vvv

“I beg your pardon?”

“We took a vote amongst ourselves,” Neville reiterated as he stood calmly before the entire assembled Order, his brown ledger tucked under one arm and Draco directly behind the other. “We have made the decision to leave the Order, and will be continuing our own operations under a new name. However, we welcome a discussion around the issues that contributed to this, and if an accord was reached we may consider continuing to affiliate instead of outright disassociating.”

Those first guard currently present were roughly fifteen people, the oldest of whom was undoubtedly Dumbledore while the youngest was a woman named Penelope. According to Draco, nearly all of them had fought in the last war this community suffered, and were brought over fairly early on in the conflict by Dumbledore himself. Except for a younger man off to the left, each member of the group looked either angry or horrified at the sudden declaration –the worst of which was the redheaded Weasley matriarch whose face was quickly colouring as her husband kept a hand at her elbow.

“Preposterous!” The portly man said, affronted. “Shameful even, I say! You cannot _possibly_ think that dividing our forces will do anything but cripple us at this critical stage!”

“Oh, I can’t?” Neville asked, mild as milk. “This brings us to the first issue –constant belittling of our contributions and concerns.”

“We aren’t a leisure club, boy,” Moody growled. “If you want us to hold your hands and consider your _feelings,_ you’re not going to last much longer.”

“A perfect example,” Neville went on blithely. “We said nothing about coddling –it is apparent that the older members of the Order do not respect the younger ones. Even a child could point out the necessity of treating those you fight beside with respect, or at the very least cordiality. Of course, this eases into our next issue, being the poor planning and lack of communication brought about by the _current_ division of the members. Tell me, why is it that barely a third of the Order is included in the second half of these meetings?”

“Because we don’t need any more potential leaks of sensitive information!” Moody barked and banged a fist on the table before him.

“ _Alastor_!”

“So it’s because you don’t _trust_ the info won’t get out,” Draco said, nodding. “I can respect that. But then again, _we’ve_ never had our discussions leaked.”

“Yes, I distinctly _don’t_ recall allowing Mundungus Fletcher access to this house,” Neville said. “And yet there he went, into your clandestine talks and then out the door, off to _god-knows-where_ but probably some Knockturn Alley info broker.”

“Mundungus was an unfortunate mistake-” Dumbledore tried to say, but Neville wasn’t having it.

“An _unfortunate mistake_ that might render your Fidelius _worthless_ and put _all_ of us in danger!” From his position just behind Draco, Dudley watched with no small amount of amusement as the men and women around Dumbledore all flinched back or looked away from Neville’s seething form. “Forget the traitor –by keeping us in the dark you put everyone at risk when we organize on our own! These problems aren’t new; need I mention Umbridge’s torture sessions? Snape’s death? For Merlin’s sake, you’re talking about taking back St. Mungo’s as if _you_ weren’t the ones who practically handed it over! After what happened to _Colin_!”

There was another collective flinch, and next to Hamaru Ron turned ashen coloured.

“We’ve _tried_ to convince you before,” Hermione said severely, crossed arms hiding how hard she was clenching her fists. “Besides the finances, which make it difficult for us to even feed our growing numbers each week, _your_ meetings are last minute and disorganized, you run them poorly and thus increase their inefficiency. For the last four months only two of you have ever taken us up on our standing invitation for our weeklies, and then you turn around and denounce the concrete results we report. In the face of our frustration at all of this, you lament how young we are regardless of the fact we’re risking our lives the same as you.”

“That is completely beside the point-”

As the full-timers verbally sparred with the first guard, Dudley stepped slightly closer to Hamaru and they started their own conversation –nothing especially concerning was going on, so they felt comfortable enough to split their attention.

 _Not quite what we expected._ Dudley tapped out a series of long and shorts on the back of his cousin’s hand, no one paying any mind to where their arms were resting between them. _We should start outreach tomorrow._

 _Swift action, truly._ Hama agreed; he had been observing the periphery of the first guard group while Neville addressed the most prominent members. Dudley had caught his gaze lingering on a few specific people here and there, though he couldn’t be sure exactly what Hamaru was thinking. _The Weasleys are choosing Neville over their parents._

 _Shit. I can’t see that going well._ Dudley surreptitiously looked at the pair again; the woman looked about ready to scream while the man was pole-axed, just stunned at the development in front of him. _I’m asking about jobs at the market, soon as we go back._

 _I may have dropped a line or two._ Hamaru nonchalantly cast that out there, like he wasn’t three steps ahead of Dudley when it came to these sorts of things; really, Dudley’s only advantages were Ingredients and common sense. _Phrased right, it sounds like a charity placement. We can see their sincerity, first._

 _And that shit newspaper has some good avenues._ Dudley had noticed an opinion piece on some super-militant agitation group –pure propaganda, surely –but now he knew there were other people around who didn’t agree with this Dark Lord of theirs, and he didn’t think that should be written off by something as stupid as not agreeing with their methods. _This is so much easier than Jiddal._

 _And in that we had the Mafia running things._ Hama joked, and Dudley internally rolled his eyes and nudged his cousin a little harder than usual.

 _What am I, burnt liver? There’s a reason Otchan doesn’t push the whole Mafia gig on **you** , Hama-han. _Dudley almost snorted at the way Hama choked on his spit, but just at that moment a sudden uptick in noise around them drew their attention back to the matter at hand.

“You _what?!_ ” Moody thundered, rising from his chair with an almost crazed look in his eye; Hamaru immediately dropped slightly into a position easier for defence, the tension in the room as thick as pea soup. Neville was holding a manila folder out to Dumbledore, who kind of looked like he was about to accept a live grenade.

“Mundungus really pushed it through,” Neville said cryptically –what had they missed? “It turns out the Fidelius is so stretched thin, it’s barely holding us all back. Sirius and I thought up this solution months ago, but didn’t want to put it into practice until we were sure.”

Hamaru’s godfather –Uncle? Dudley could probably call him that if Hama did –cut in as soon as Neville was done talking. “It’s my house, so I will do what I feel is best. Sorry, all of you, but Neville –all of them –they’re right. Take the records and please, respect our decision.”

Dumbledore accepted the folder gravely, and out of the corner of his eye Dudley saw Moody reach into his coat pocket probably pretty stealthily for a wizard. Hama nodded his way –Dudley was closer –so he sighed and shouldered his way past Draco just as the old man levelled the wand in Neville’s direction and demand he ‘reveal who he really was’. A split second later Dudley shot forward, used his shoulder to point the man’s entire wand arm up toward the ceiling, and tapped Moody’s face none too gently with the palm of his free hand.

A shudder went through the old man, and then he dropped like a sack of potatoes and Dudley had the entire first guard pointing wands at him in a heartbeat –he raised his hands but wasn’t too concerned, since Hama was ready to throw up a barricade should he need it. Draco brayed a hysterical laugh that did nothing to break the tension, and Dudley shared a long suffering look with Neville around the wands shoved in his face.

“Aw, don’t get too worried, it’s just a fever,” Dudley said, nudging Moody with his foot. “Vibratin’ too long ain’t good for anyone, y’know?”

__

_“Boss,”_

_“Hm?” Match met Lemore’s eyes from his seat behind his desk, noted the chipper tilt to his face and instantly knew what his subordinate was about to tell him. Nearly a week after the brats dropped in on them unexpectedly, there were only so many things that warranted one of his men interrupting him midday like this._

_“Takimaru-han’s ten minutes out, Shin’s twenty,” Lemore reported promptly._

_“Thanks; let ‘im through an’ I’ll keep ‘im busy,” Match waved off Lemore’s snicker at his expense and soon was left to his business again. He stared and let out a resigned huff at the stack of papers he still had to wade through –when he agreed to take over for Ryu he never would’ve imagined how... all-encompassing his duties would become._

_Regardless of what the UN and IGO said about it, when the entire population was engaged in working for its’ own future, it really wasn’t that difficult to run things on your own. The fact he was Mafia and not some wilting bureaucrat –and not exactly shy about cutthroat methods of getting his way –might help, but the citizens of his home supporting his decisions counted more than anything. If it weren’t for that, nothing Match had accomplished through the Underground Cooking World would’ve amounted to shit._

_Because, as his enemies loved to point out and Match knew all too well –he couldn’t solve Nerg or Jiddal’s problems on his own. He was only one man, imperfect and biased in his own ways, and all he had going for him was an organization loyal to him and a long-seeing eye; the people’s support was unexpected and more a result of their absolute desperation than any merit of his person. The Bandits would sooner take what little the country had left and sell it for their own gain, the ‘Populans’ were constantly in-fighting and supported a wack-job who declared himself President a few months back, the Candists were religious extremists no one trusted, and all the rest of the fringe opposition were small and called for reforms and allowing private companies to come in by collaborating with the UN. Match hadn’t wanted this; but who else was supposed to take the Mafia’s place?_

_So Match had long accepted that his duty now was to take this as far as he could –he would not leave things halfway and hope that the world would change around them. He held no illusions that if he gave a grain their old oppressors wouldn’t try to seize the whole bowl, and his country would quickly plunge back to the dark days of the Open Ground conflict and an IGO blind eye. The UN insisting he recognize the Jiddalan royal lineage and release the occupied mines, and the tiny sects on the population’s edges who brayed that the masses weren’t ready or that the City should let investors in to rebuild –they could all go to hell. The people of Jiddal weren’t stupid, and the Councils had made their positions clear._

_If his people wanted a revolution, he’d die before he saw it fail._

_“Match-san.”_

_Match shook himself out of his tunnel vision and stood when Takimaru stepped through his door and shut it quietly behind him, ensuring they had a little privacy. The last two years hadn’t been kind on him –alongside the new tattoos Takimaru had gained stress lines and a pinch of constant worry in his brow that hadn’t been there when they’d both been younger. They didn’t see each other as much as Match might like, but even he could tell that the Knight was on a razor’s edge right now, with little sleep and not much else._

_“He’s fine –don’t make yerself sick,” Takimaru nodded automatically, and when Match got close enough he reached out and grasped tightly at Match’s wrist, a tremble in his hand. “Kid’s def’nitely yours, no doubt. Had to tell ‘im no one’s up an’ at ‘em until **five** when he woke Tony up at four o’clock try’na get started.”_

_A little colour started to return to Takimaru’s cheeks as Match spoke. “You shall be hard pressed to find another like him,” he said tightly, then, “Match, I thank you for watching over him.”_

_“Like I’d do anythin’ else,” Match replied simply, which made Takimaru finally relax; he leaned forward and rested his forehead on Match’s shoulder, his weariness plainly on display. Match wrapped his free arm around Takimaru’s shoulders and let its weight rest there for a few minutes, until his Knight’s pulse slowed and the jitters in his hand disappeared. “C’mon now, Kako brought out some tea. Have a cup ‘fore they get ‘ere.”_

_Takimaru accepted, and since Match didn’t have another chair in his office –well, really it was also his bedroom, with the futon folded in the corner –the Knight perched on a corner of his desk that Match certainly did **not** leave open for such an occasion. While they waited on Shin, Match finished a bulletin for this week’s Council meetings and Takimaru filched a few papers off the top of his inbox and skimmed through them, but by the absent look in his eye he obviously wasn’t in the mood to offer advice._

_Halfway through Din’s report on the nest of Bandits she had taken care of –heart warming, really –there came a quiet knock on the door and the subdued air in the room snapped away instantly. Takimaru stood as Match called for Shin to send them in, and then the boy of the hour walked inside clutching his cousin’s hand like he was terrified._

_“Harry,” Takimaru said, and fuck but it was awful that Match was glad for the show of vulnerability after the last year’s forced stoic and resignation; Harry’s face crumpled and he started crying right away, great, fat tears he must have been holding in for a long time._

_“ **Otousan** ,” Match sighed as Takimaru strode forward and dropped to his knees –the kid broke down completely as soon as he was wrapped up in Takimaru’s arms. Dudley looked particularly uncomfortable, like he knew they were intruding, so Match placed a hand on his shoulder and gently steered him to the door._

_“We’ll be outside,” Match said, not sure if Takimaru even heard him, and Dudley let himself get pushed along without complaint._

_In the hallway it was a lot harder to overhear the conversation through the thick old door to Match’s quarters, although they still caught a few high pitched sobs as they waited. Match kept half an eye on Dudley as the kid twiddled his thumbs beside him, sure that the boy wouldn’t voice what was on his mind unless prompted._

_“Go on, out with it,” Match said, dropping down to sit with Ry_ _ū-_ _ō tucked against his side, only a little bit taller than the kid now that he was cross-legged. Dudley glanced at the door –nervous, apparently not as willing to trust Match as his cousin, which Match could respect –and then he met Match’s side eye boldly._

_“I don’t want Mr. Ta –erm, Takimaru-han to hate me, because I used to be really mean to Harry,” Straight off, it was kind of funny how fast he’d picked up Nerg’s dialect, and Match had forgot that **this** kid hadn’t ever met the Knight before, only heard of him second or third hand. “But if he does, I deserve it, but it’ll make Harry sad.”_

_People assumed Match was good with kids because he cared that they were treated well, but it was **easy** to just give them food or let them tag along with him while he patrolled. It was a lot harder to actually engage with them –it was only one of the many areas Match failed to live up to Ryu. But at the least, when it came to kids their logic was usually pretty straightforward._

_“Takimaru’s too much of a bleedin’ heart to hate you,” Match told him honestly. “He knows yous two’re close. But he don’t really know **you** , so it might take ‘im a bit to get used to you.”_

_Dudley nodded with a serious look on his face that really didn’t suit a nine year old; Match listened a little more intently and couldn’t hear more than a quiet murmuring from his quarters, so at least the crying was over._

_“M-Match-han?” Dudley piped up again, and Match made a noise for him to go on. “W-Why is Nerg City like this?”_

_Match knew from the moment he saw them that, his cousin aside, Dudley was nothing like the children of Nerg, who wore threadbare cloth and often, before the Restoration, had been the last to eat and the first to die out in the cold. Most of Match’s own friends in childhood were kids like that, frozen forever where they last closed their eyes –Match was the exception to the rule, no matter how hard Ryu had tried to change it. Dudley had grown up very differently, even at a glance; it showed in his un-calloused hands and the baby fat he still carried and the clothes he wore._

_Yet the kid gave as good as he got, Match knew; while he wasn’t as used to getting up at the ass crack of dawn as his cousin, he never refused a task handed to him throughout the day, even when he had no clue what he was doing. And Match had seen enough fresh-faced Revivers come through his streets that he could recognize when someone was trying not to show that they couldn’t take the sorry sights of his home; not the destruction or ecological devastation, nor the violence and hunger that went along with it._

_“Years back, before I was born, the rulers of this country grew rich off the backs o’ its people,” Match tried to keep it simple enough that a kid could understand –he hadn’t explained this since Takimaru all those years ago. “Tryin’ to get ‘em to change their ways by appealin’ to their humanity, well, that was never gonna work. Those in the rulin’ class’d sooner drag everyone down into oblivion with ‘em than curb their greed, an’ that’s exactly what they did.”_

_Dudley was riveted, so Match went on with a bit more detail. “The Jiddalan Uprising was more of a civil war, instigated by those in power to make the people fight each other ‘nstead o’ **them**. Nerg used to be the capital of Jiddal –when the rich were finally direc’ly threatened, they chose to jump ship an’ trap everyone within these walls. That was the Open Ground conflict –by the time the wall was broken and the fightin’ stopped, this city was in shambles. Tens of thousands dead, fields decimated, livestock all but gone, and originally the Mafia was just ‘nother opportunist gang o’ shitheads.” Match snorted at the look on Dudley’s face when he badmouthed his own organization’s past. “It’s true. It just showed how bad it was, an’ Jiddal outside o’ Nerg was almost **worse** , with the King livin’ on gold an’ caviar while his people starved. Then, Ryu took over, an’...”_

_Match trailed off as the door to his office opened from inside; Takimaru and Harry were both red-faced and a little jittery from the adrenaline wearing off, but they were also smiling. Takimaru, notably, looked to Dudley right away –the kid scrambled to his feet and stood there anxiously waiting for Takimaru’s verdict._

_“Hello, Dudley,” Takimaru said, and he moved closer and bent down so that from the floor, Match couldn’t see his face. “You may know such, but all the same, I am Takimaru. It is –I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”_

_Dudley sniffled but held his ground. “M-Me too, T-Takimaru-han,” he said with a little wobble in his voice. “Because –you’re Harry’s most important person.”_

_“As he is mine,” Match couldn’t see Takimaru’s face, but he sounded fond. “I think we have this in common, Dudley.”_

____

_Match, as Don of the Gourmet Mafia and de facto Leader of Jiddal through his control of the Underground Cooking World, took very, very few privileges for himself. Regardless that he had to be cooped up for most of the day tending to his writing, meetings and general governing business, he still made time in the evenings to patrol the Wall and assist his subordinates in any way they needed. If there was a threat to the City or a big enough one to Jiddal’s borders –like Ouverite trying to send ‘relief supplies’ that concealed guns for the Candists –more often than not Match took his sword to it himself. His quarters were only larger because he had to fit a desk in with his bed, he ate and bathed alongside his men, and he never turned away even the newest member who wished to speak with him._

_That said, he allowed himself one indulgence; the nights that Takimaru stayed, he woke up at seven instead of five, and thus took breakfast a little later. It was a little hilarious that **this** was the most controversial of all his decisions –Match knew most of his people would rather him take a bit **more** time off, and if they didn’t trust him to know his own limits Louie surely would have convinced them by now to help him keep Match away from paperwork for more than a few evenings every week._

_Last night, Match had made it clear to Takimaru that he and the brats could stay as long as they wanted and he’d already set an extra futon up in the kids’ room in anticipation for Harry to be a little clingy after so long apart. Match wasn’t the kind of guy to make Takimaru **consider** him at such an emotional time, he had that much tact, so after supper he’d left the younger man to it and gone out for his normal patrol._

_Surprisingly, when he returned it was to his futon laid out and already occupied by a snoring Gourmet Knight, who only managed to wake up long enough to mumble and throw his arm over Match’s waist before he fell back asleep. Internal alarm switched to seven o’clock, Match conked out not long after, and woke up a little confused at five a.m., the expected weight of Takimaru beside him but an unfamiliar small figure kneeling next to the bed. Harry froze when he saw that Match was awake, but only briefly before he shook Takimaru’s shoulder._

_Takimaru snorted and gurgled slightly before he snapped to awareness at the sight of Harry –he half rose on his elbows in worry, but the kid quickly shut that down._

_“Ah, sorry, Otousan, I’m okay!” he said, shyly ducking his head. “Uhm, I wanted to tell you I’ll see you at lunch –I promised to help with clearing rubble this morning.”_

_“Oh, thank you for telling me, Harry,” Takimaru murmured, already settling again now there was no danger; he still shifted up so he could give his son a hug. “Until then, I love you.”_

_“Love you too,” and then he was out the door, and Match and Takimaru were alone again in the thin light of the early morning. Takimaru flopped back down and Match took the opportunity to tug him into his side none too gently, which drew an amused huff from his Knight._

_“Such a good child,” Takimaru mumbled, and Match hummed in agreement before they were once more overtaken by sleep._

____

_Without Gourmet Cells Dudley couldn’t ever hope to do as much as Harry, but he didn’t want to let his cousin or Match-han down, so he did his best and worked harder than he ever had in his life. Nerg City was the most unfamiliar place he had ever seen, full of people his parents would have hated on sight and things Dudley had never even known existed. Harry said the situation here was more common than anyone would like, and Dudley didn’t know how to feel at that being how the world was._

_The first day, Kako tried to put the both of them on the same tasks, but everyone quickly realized that while Dudley could run pretty fast he was nowhere near as strong as his cousin, nor as versatile. So then Dudley had been assigned loads of different tasks –he helped till the few fields Nerg cultivated, fetch water for the clinic from the nearest clean well, swept dust from where new concrete would be poured, and then finally found his place at the East Quarter Soup Kitchen run by Chef Fehr Tahin._

_Dudley’s mother never let him help her in the kitchen, so at first he was a sorry sight and Chef had a pinched look in her eyes the entire morning. But Dudley wanted to **help** , so he watched carefully every time someone showed him what to do and studiously replicated it even when it was hard, so that by dinnertime her cross expression cleared and Chef allowed him to return the following morning._

_Dudley learnt more in that kitchen than he ever knew was possible. Nerg wasn’t like Little Whinging –they couldn’t afford to waste even a single fibre of an Ingredient, and the people who ate here weren’t paying for it, because most of the time they didn’t even have a place to sleep, let alone money to buy something to eat. There could be no waste, because they had to make everything count for far more than it could, and food was the most important thing to everyone here. Not just the ones who they fed, but also to all the cooks who put in their time and effort to make this food._

_It was impressed upon Dudley that even though they didn’t have much, as long as they fed the people, they were doing the work that was needed of them. The Revivers could think of the fields, the construction workers could repair the buildings, the Mafia could handle their protection –a Chef was to feed people while they could, and keep them alive for even just one more day. When the time came they might have to drop their knives and pick up a basket and sickle or a hammer and nails, but until that day they would work for the hungry._

_So Dudley was slow, but he made sure not a single peeling hit the floor when he prepared the carrots and potatoes and saved the shavings for the stock or ‘farmer’s soup’ as Chef called it. He was slow, but he made sure he didn’t spill a single bean or grain of rice when he measured them out at someone’s request. He was slow, but he clipped the live herbs in the back garden carefully and never took more than Chef Fehr instructed._

_Dudley was slow, but he wanted to get everything right._

_The morning after Takimaru arrived in Nerg City, Dudley woke up an hour after Harry left for his job for the day, and hastened over to the Soup Kitchen with Emar as his escort, and he was tired as all get out but determined to keep going. Besides, it was a good kind of tired, and when Chef Fehr greeted him from her customary spot at the massive stove, and handed him a cup of tea before he started on the dishes, he knew he’d be able to go for however long they stayed._

_Being so short, dishes were trouble for Dudley, but if he stood on a milk crate it helped a bit; he knew how to do this at least, for it had been stamped on his brain with even more seriousness than his other tasks. They saved everything, no matter how inconsequential. That meant filling the sink **just** so, with only a teaspoon of soap, scraping every single crumb into the compost bin before the plate hit the water, and using the steel scrub so he wouldn’t have to rewash unnecessarily._

_When he got a break two hours into the day, Dudley chose to watch as Chef Fehr cooked for the people out in the dining hall. He didn’t say it, but she was the coolest person he’d ever seen in a kitchen, including his Mum –the way Chef stepped surely from station to station, calmly ordered the rest of the staff in the meantime and never stalled or faltered even for a moment was absolutely mesmerising._

_Chef said she left Nerg as a kid, but once the Restoration Effort was underway she had decided to return and do her part, abandoning a three-star restaurant in Cayenne City for, at the time, no concrete plan and only a Mafia missive that told her she would be assigned accordingly. Her Combo Partner had even come with her, and Geddy-han was helping out too, disposing of the invasive and dangerous Corrosive Insects that were infesting parts of Jiddal’s other cities._

_The staff here all had lunch in the back room, and then Dudley was switched from dishes to shucking corn and peas –as always, he was careful to get every last husk and leaving even if Joel complained that he was taking too long again. But Chef never said a word, so Dudley kept on as he was until his next break came and went and the sun slowly turned the walls orange in the late afternoon._

_Dudley sat quietly on a stool at the bar counter with a cup of tea when a man came in through the front door, only noteworthy because of how **clean**_ _he was. Everyone in Nerg was either dirty from homelessness or hard work, or stained from past day’s work, so something about the meticulous set of his shirt set Dudley on edge._

_Apparently Dudley was correct, when the man took a revolver out and held it to Saami’s head and demanded that Chef Fehr hand over any money or Ingredients they had. No one in the dining hall moved except for Chef herself, who calmly finished washing her hands, dried them, and came out from the kitchen with her knife at her side. The man yelled again and pressed the gun harder against Saami’s temple, and Chef lifted her knife and pointed it straight at the intruder._

_“Hurt him and your body won’t even be used for **compost** ,” she said, and a sudden pressure crushed the room so that it was hard for Dudley to even breathe. But he wanted to see, he wanted to know what was happening, so he forced air into his lungs bit by bit, a little at a time until the weight finally eased. The man looked increasingly angry, and Dudley was really worried that he actually **was** going to do something to hurt Saami even after Chef’s warning, because since when were people who held up Soup Kitchens reasonable?_

_“I don’t think you understand what’s happening here!” The man growled, hand jerking just so, and-_

_Every person in the dining hall simultaneously turned towards him, and every single one of them had a gun drawn and aimed directly at the man’s head. The intruder froze, aghast, and Chef stepped forward a little, an expression on her face that Dudley hadn’t seen anyone in his life make, like she was so furious she didn’t know what to do with herself._

_“You think we’ve got **money** you shitfaced bastard?!” Chef demanded. “We barely have enough to feed ourselves! Like hell we’d let you steal food we give away to people who **need it!** ” Chef Fehr spit at the man’s feet. “Why the fuck did you come here? Answer and let Saami go, and we might just let you live.”_

_The man looked murderous, but he raised the revolver away even so, and Saami walked away from his hold as calm as could be. “You people are under the Mafia’s thumb!” he snarled. “That fucking tyrant Match won’t recognize President Odai –all we want is to **liberate**_ _you! Your Ingredients would serve our cause much more effectively!” The intruder swept his eyes around the dining hall, and they landed squarely on Dudley at the bar. “You murder our men, brainwash the people, shelter the bastards of Match’s bedwarmer-”_

_Dudley jumped and gasped when a shot rang out in the dining hall and something wet hit him in the face as the man stopped speaking in an instant. The three seconds the intruder remained standing with a gaping hole where his left eye had just been would probably never leave Dudley’s brain, nor the sound his body made when it fell forward and hit the floor with a great thud._

_“Tch, piece of shit,” Chef spat, sounding far away._

_“Sorry, Chef, couldn’t just let him say stuff like that about the kids, or Takimaru-han,” someone to Dudley’s left said –was that Emar? She sounded strange, like he was hearing her through a wall –and around him people started putting their guns back from wherever they procured them. But Dudley couldn’t stop himself from staring at the man on the floor, red staining the back of his head and a red liquid slowly, slowly creeping out from underneath where his face was pressed into the wood, blood, it was blood, it was the only thing moving because the intruder would never move agai-_

_“Dudley-kun, look at me,” Dudley tore his eyes up from the red, red, red and looked Chef Fehr right in the eyes. It was like a spell was broken –suddenly instead of cold he felt hot and itchy, and he gasped in a breath as the first tears broke and streamed even hotter down his cheeks, and it made him feel gross, too hot, too clogged up. He didn’t know if he was crying because the man had been shot or because he had said such horrible things or if it was just the suddenness of it all after seeing so many awful sights in Nerg in general, but Chef Fehr hushed him and helped him into the back room and he just kept going._

_Dudley wiped at his face when he couldn’t take the hot, gross feeling anymore, but when his fist came away streaked with blood it only made everything worse and the keen that escaped him then made Chef fuss even more. It felt like he couldn’t breathe again, like his chest was convulsing in distress, and all he could think about was the wa y the man stared his way and suddenly he only had one eye, it happened in a split second and then he was dead and he didn’t have an eye, why did he keep coming back to that-_

_“Dudley!”_

_Takimaru was suddenly in front of him, and he jerked back at the suddenness of it, and his hand landed on the counter on a half peeled onion –it started to smoke and then promptly burst into flame, which made everyone in the kitchen take a big step back. Dudley didn’t understand what was happening, so he backed into the nearest corner and yelped in fright when the bit of wall his hands touched quickly blackened and charred like it had been used for kindling._

_“Dudley, don’t fret, please let us see your hands,” Takimaru soothed, and Dudley still felt too hot and too itchy and scared out of his wits but he obeyed and shoved his arms out into the air in front of him. Joel approached with a jug of water and when Dudley gave the go-ahead he smoothly poured it onto Dudley’s palms, and the water spat and sizzled and turned to steam before it even hit the floor._

_“Wh-What’s **happening**?!” Dudley demanded. “I –I don’t like this! I w-want my-my Mama, please, I don’t –I can’t-!”_

_“Dudley, I know you are frightened,” Takimaru kept talking to him and stayed just within reach, although Dudley didn’t want to get his hands anywhere **near** Harry’s father for fear he would end up like the onion. “You have... never done such as this, before?”_

_“No! No, no, no, never!” Behind Takimaru, Dudley saw Chef Fehr look to them in worry while Emar inspected the still smoking onion on the counter. “It was always Harry –I could never do nothin’ like this! Dad and Mum would’ve been so **mad**!”_

_Takimaru looked angry for a split second before his expression smoothed out into concern once more. “I do think, Dudley, that this is happening **because** you are frightened. How is it you feel?”_

_“Gross,” Dudley said immediately. “Too hot, and –and itchy. And now I’m, ugh, sw-sweaty and even grosser! My hands –they’re too hot, too.”_

_“Joel-kun, another bucket of water, please,” Takimaru requested, and then addressed Dudley again. “Let us try to cool your hands down, then, firstly. If everyone could give us privacy?”_

_The assembled kitchen staff all murmured their agreement, and as they filed out a lot of them shot Dudley little waves goodbye or told him to feel better, until the only ones left in the back room were Dudley, Takimaru and Match, who looked even scarier than Chef Fehr when she was yelling at the intruder._

_“I’m gonna kill them,” Match said very, very calmly. Takimaru made a sound like he didn’t agree, but the Don shook his head and gripped the handle of his sword. “This is too far. If Odai wants me to recognize ‘im so badly, then I’ll treat ‘im like the threat he is.”_

_Takimaru sighed. “At least be back tonight,” Match nodded, and left the room before another word could be said –strangely, witnessing the small exchange had already calmed Dudley down a little, so that when Takimaru helped him to dip his hands in the bucket they only lost a few inches of the water to evaporation. He still felt gross and sweaty, but his hands were slowly cooling in the water and Takimaru took a cold wet cloth to his face and didn’t comment when Dudley shut his eyes at the first sign of the intruder’s blood._

_They were quiet for a few more minutes, until Dudley’s face was clean of tears and blood both and he felt calm enough to take his hands out of the water –when he tentatively touched them to the sides of the bucket, nothing happened and they both breathed a sigh of relief._

_“Shall I send for Ha-kun?” Takimaru asked, and Dudley shook his head quickly._

_“N-Not yet, please,” he sniffed. “He –He’s busy.”_

_“Ha-kun could never be so busy to refuse you,” Takimaru said, but he didn’t push. “Dudley-kun, you did say ere this has not happened, but I am thinking you have active Gourmet Cells as your cousin does. It is not unheard of to run in families, and if your home does lie in the Gourmet World as is likely, you may not have needed them until now...” He might have gone on, but Dudley shook his head frantically and Takimaru paused so he could speak._

_“No, I can’t!” Dudley didn’t know why the thought made his chest feel so tight again –in fright, he submerged his hands once more and they lost another inch of water. “That can’t be it! Mum said-” he stopped, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. He was sure that Harry didn’t know –he knew his cousin didn’t listen to what his parents talked about, but Dudley **had** , and he never wanted Harry to know._

_“Tell me,” Takimaru asked gently, and Dudley curled further into himself in shame._

_“She said Harry’s the only-” **Freak** , she had said, but Dudley didn’t want to voice that. “Sh-She said no one else can do the stuff he can. That everyone else is normal, and he’s not. It’s not **true**!” Dudley needed to make it clear to Takimaru that he didn’t think that way, needed him to understand. “Harry’s normal! He’s my best friend! But, but Mum, an’ Da’,” There were more tears on his face again, and Dudley had never felt worse in his life. “They hate Harry, because he can do stuff with his Gourmet Cells. I don’t know why –he isn’t scary! But they **do** , and if they hate Harry because of that –and I can’t have them, I **can’t** , if I **do** -”_

_Dudey couldn’t say it –it was practically his worst fear._

_Takimaru didn’t respond for a few minutes; he rung out the wash cloth and took to gently dabbing at a few stains on Dudley’s shirt, or he swiped at a spot on Dudley’s face he must have missed before. On the other side of the door, Dudley could hear the sounds of the rest of the kitchen staff cleaning up the place for the night, and he felt guilty all of a sudden that someone else was stuck with the work he should be doing right now._

_“Nevertheless, it is possible,” he eventually pronounced, and Dudley sniffled in misery at the thought. “Dudley, it is clear to see –Ha-kun is now spending longer in the Human World than your home. We do not know of when you may return, but several months mayhap it be. I implore you, do not shut this out. Nothing good can come from trying to repress a part of yourself.”_

_Dudley was quiet, but he thought about that. A ‘part of himself’? Is that what Gourmet Cells were? Every time Harry talked about them, he sort of just thought it was something he could **do** , not really a thing that made Harry who he **was.** But when Takimaru put it like that, it made Gourmet Cells look different._

_Gourmet Cells were a part of what made Harry, Harry; and now they were something that made Dudley who he was, too. Here in Nerg City they talked about it like it was commonplace and Dudley knew that Harry **hated** Little Whinging for more than just how his parents treated him –it was also because he had to hide... an entire part of himself. Unlike Dudley, Harry had been doing stuff with his Cells since he was a baby, and every single time he did, he was made to feel horrible for something –Dudley now understood –he had never been able to control. It was no wonder that once he had a taste of how they treated his abilities here, that Harry had latched onto it as hard as he could._

_“What happens if I try to ignore it?” Dudley asked._

_“Your Cells will become unwieldy. As any other skill, they can only be mastered such when repeated effort is given them. Otherwise, they will continually crave better Ingredients, a higher refinement of Food Honour, more exercise, and without accommodating their demands they will drain you of your vitality and sooner kill you than help you.” Takimaru rose up briefly to rinse the hand cloth in the sink, and when he sat back down he lifted Dudley’s submerged hands and had him hold the cloth tightly. “The only way to choose not to use them is to be able to use them.”_

_“...okay,” Dudley nodded. His hands were still cooling off, and now the rest of him was as well. Dudley looked at the bucket half full of water, patched on one side with a messy weld, and the cloth in his hands that was thin and ragged at the edges, stained so much the original colour was a mystery. The floorboards were mismatched wood and the occasional sheet of metal where something must have rotted away, and for some reason it made Dudley think about the way that –that man’s clothes had all been fitted and clean. “Takimaru-han, why did... **he** hate Match-han so much? He’s only ever been nice to us, to everyone.”_

_“That is a difficult answer to give,” Takimaru sighed. He sat down on the floor again, this time only a few inches to Dudley’s left, the knees of his pants already covered in the grime of the back room that they couldn’t seem to get rid of no matter how hard Dudley scrubbed with the mop. “People believe in things they think will help them, even if they never will in reality. Or they have been hurt by someone in the past, and now they won’t –or can’t –see that person in any other light, even with evidence otherwise.”_

_“But **why**? That doesn’t make sense.”_

_“It doesn’t, but that is how things are, sometimes. It may be they have wrong information, or are too proud to think they can be wrong, or are going by what everyone else does. A worker on strike will not trust the police, for they act in the interest of the boss, not of the worker. But what if the police say they will go against their orders and help the strike, and act to that end? Should the worker refuse because he knows to trust them is a risk? Or should he accept the solidarity he is offered, which would strengthen the strike? It is difficult to know in the moment.” Takimaru looked at the door that separated the back room from the kitchen. “Match-san is kind in small ways, to people the world doesn’t care about. So others don’t see that side of him. They know he is Mafia; they know he controls Jiddal through the Underground Cooking World; they know he will kill people on his own terms. If that was what you were told of him, only, would you think he is a good person, one to trust? I should think not.”_

_“But looking closer, from all angles, is where you see how things actually are. The Mafia, yes, are criminals, but they were the ones feeding the people of Nerg since as far back as Ryu-sama became the Don. Match-san was given control of the Underground Cooking World, which did so many horrible things to Jiddal that one shudders to speak of it, but he has tried to slow the use of narcotics and put in place the Soup Kitchens with those same shady resources, and the Jiddalan crown were **worse**. He kills people, this is true, and many. This is a fact that cannot be avoided.” And by the look on Takimaru’s face, Dudley suspected there was a lot he wasn’t saying, and the fact that Match was off somewhere **right now** killing people was a heavy thing to know. “And not all of them for a just reason, like to protect this kitchen from men like that one. This is a difficult thing for even adults to come to terms with, and you should think about it seriously.”_

_Dudley nodded, and so Takimaru continued. “Some may say that any killing is unjust, and others that it is acceptable only under certain circumstances, and even others who see nothing wrong with killing. Today Emar killed that man because he said something she didn’t agree with –it may have been awful, but did that mean he deserved it? Or was it enough that he was willing to threaten violence before that, and would have done worse? It is questions like these that will tell you why people do the things they do.” Dudley must have been making a funny face, for Takimaru broke the solemn atmosphere just then with a quiet chuckle. “I’m sorry I speak of this so gravely, Dudley-kun, and that my answer may not be one that satisfies you. But it is, in my thinking, very important to say it, and not treat you like you won’t understand.”_

_“It’s hard. But I want to know.”_

_“As you should. I will extend to you now –please come to me if you need anything, just as Harry does. I shall not endeavour to replace your parents, but I will be there for you if you wish.” With that, Takimaru rung out the cloth again, and as he was handing it back to Dudley loud footfalls suddenly sounded through the door seconds before Harry threw it open, worry creasing his face and still dusty from the day’s work._

_Dudley let his cousin fret. Nerg City really was the most unfamiliar place he had ever been. His parents would have hated the people he had grown to like, here, and before today Dudley never would have needed to think about such complicated things as Takimaru spoke of. Dudley still didn’t know how he felt about this being how the world was. But that was okay; when Harry looked at him in amazement over what his hands –his Gourmet Cells –could do, Dudley knew that he would have the time he needed to figure it out._

____

In the end, Neville extended an offer; if anyone wished to join with their split they would welcome the support. He made it clear that for the time being they would be open to working with the Order of the Phoenix as a separate entity, and that all Dumbledore needed to do was send a request and they would decide at such time. Then Sirius asked that the first guard leave his home, and though there were protests given by some, in the end Dumbledore acquiesced and so the rest did as well. Dudley took note of the way the eldest Weasleys broke off from a hushed conversation with Bill and Fleur and how all four were left red faced and frustrated, and that in the end only two from the Order deigned to stay, and it was not them.

Yet, reservations aside, Dudley was satisfied with how the little group handled the turning-on-the-head of their operations over the following weeks.

What he and Hama had missed in the discussion was the fact that Sirius and Bill Weasley had stripped the house and its occupants of a number of spells, one of which was an apparently very high level security spell called the Fidelius. The original Fidelius had then been carefully placed onto a list of the First Guard members that Neville had curated in his ledger, and as such transferred off of the premises and onto something more manageable. Sirius had then, as the Head of the Black House or some other high-society mumbo jumbo, kept the base under wraps with other, less involved enchantments until the vote for a split could take place. Two separate charms –not including the one on the backyard which was being left up for if the Order members were really in a bind –were soon reapplied, one on Neville’s ledger of ‘Defense Army’ members and the other on the house itself.

As full-timers, it went unspoken that there was some reason they couldn’t leave the base except in extenuating circumstances, like with the tactical know-how required for the Ministry infiltration. Neville’s reason was that he kept up separate Fidelius charms on each and every property this resistance group maintained, along with entire lists of people and other, smaller things Dudley wasn’t particularly interested in. But it meant that he practically had no magic left for himself, and basically only kept his wand on him at any given time for appearance’s sake; even Dudley understood that there was no way he could afford to get caught.

So with the Order of the Phoenix off to some other base of operations, activity in Grimmauld picked up practically overnight with even greater gusto than Dudley could have imagined. Neville and Hermione were soon absorbed in writing letters and taking calls from their allies in Bulgaria and France and coordinating with the safehouse keepers they had across the country, while Ron holed himself up in his infirmary and drew up an exhaustive list of supplies. Draco and Sirius started drawing up plans for infiltrations and raids at a break neck speed, while the twins drew Hamaru into their lair to discuss the use of snakes as spies and Hamaru’s Gourmet Cells in detail.

Dudley himself was occupied with keeping the kitchen, and then he was cornered by Remus –who was suddenly the sole treasurer of this organization, and despite his extra years he revealed he had next to no clue about how to proceed, which wasn’t surprising given the backwards nature of this community. Dudley ended up spending many more hours with the sickly man talking over the best financial strategies and tactics for income over those weeks.

And yes, it soon became weeks. The old times when Hamaru’s trips lasted naught several days were long gone, so it was to be expected that the one month mark of their time stuck in London would soon be upon them, with no end in sight.

Ever since his first foray into the Human World with Hama on his ninth birthday, Dudley and Hamaru had been confined to skipping around from place to place in the Human World with the occasional glimpse of the Gourmet World –culminating in that breath-taking, terrifying visit at fifteen. Not once had they come back to England, or really any other country they recognized the name of, and after _that_ trip the stints between jumps had grown so long that half the time it was easier to just head back to Simple Diet Hill or Nerg City on their own rather than wait it out.

The other half consisted of those times when Hamaru –and inevitably Dudley as well –would get dragged into the affairs of the places they landed in, just as they did here in London. It was so prevalent that Mansom started calling them the ‘Meddling Duo’ in his complaints to Match; it was more flattering than what the UN slung around, at least, and certainly more so than what this community’s newspaper spewed forth every day.

The non-magical newspapers were par for the course, obviously. They vacillated between all the usual stuff that Human World newspapers did, if with more focus on the Monarchy than Dudley was used to; the hottest topic right now was the upcoming Olympics and the strange weather plaguing the Isles since last year. The Daily Prophet, meanwhile, was a reactionary propaganda machine for the Dark Lord’s every thought, it seemed, not unlike Ouverite’s ‘Gourmet Herald’ back home –only _this_ paper didn’t even operate under the polite veneer that the Herald maintained. Dudley read it to keep abreast of the situation in the wider community, along with the underground Quibbler which the Defense Army had correctly started writing for and circulating themselves, but it still made his blood boil to have to read such lambasting of these people he almost tolerated.

Even the Candists weren’t so vitriolic –ah, wait, that was because they were splitting apart at the seams from dwindling numbers and factional disputes.

When Dudley pointed out something he thought might help them in the future from one of those newspaper articles and both Sirius and Ron reacted oddly, Dudley remembered just how different it was to grow up in a place like the Human World. If this had surfaced in the days before the Last Hurdle, Match would have appealed to the Councils in a heartbeat and Dudley would bet his knife that they’d have voted in favour of the notion within hours.

He didn’t really get why Ron was so hacked off about this.

“What’s the problem?”

The headline of the paper read, ‘Mudblood Sympathizing Terrorists Spark Riot’, and was accompanied by a moving picture of several people with covered faces hurling what appeared to be _molotovs_ at approaching Death Eaters. The article itself was the expected garbage, but Dudley had heard of them before –a group calling themselves the ‘Magic Liberation Front’ was enough to give anyone pause, he thought. Ron though had visibly recoiled and Sirius had made an unsure, hesitant noise in the back of his throat at the article when Dudley showed them.

“The Front’s causing _his_ forces a lot of trouble these days, when they’re around,” Sirius mused, a considering note in his voice. Ron scowled and crossed his arms, ears flushed with irritation already.

“They’re a violent, militant gang if anything. The only reason they aren’t in line with _him_ is because they _like_ muggles,” he turned away from the paper decisively. “Besides, we’re already considering Triple S.”

“We need all the help we can get, at this point,” Hermione said, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “The fact they prefer direct action isn’t a demerit, Ron.”

“Then how about the _fact_ they don’t safeguard their so-called muggle comrades?” Ron slammed the end of his crutch into the floor. “All that lip service to ‘freely sharing’ and half those injured in any of their _riots-_ ”

 _Ah,_ Dudley thought as Ron dissolved into a small rant. _So that’s it._ As one of the last remaining medics for the resistance efforts across the board –apparently their magical hospital was being held hostage –it was no wonder Ron was up in arms about this. The rare occasions he left the base were solely to travel to the Army’s various safehouses and treat the people waiting there, many of whom had to be connected to the Front’s demonstrations –since nearly every demo produced people who needed treating. It wasn’t too farfetched to think that Ron might find the idea of directly allying with such a group... distasteful.

“-not to mention the _danger_ of bringing in-”

“Ron...”

He stopped all of a sudden at the voice, and Dudley turned away from the table to see an unfamiliar redhead just behind Hermione; he was short and a good deal rougher looking than his siblings(?), with shiny burns up his arms and his clothes stained with what looked to be old blood, a bandana loosely tied around his neck.

“Charlie! When did you get in?” Sirius stood to shake the man’s hand.

“Few nights ago,” Charlie shrugged, his hands back in his jacket pockets. “You were saying about the Front?”

Ron now looked distinctly unnerved, but he went on, still. “They let their muggle members take the hits,” he glared fiercely at the statement and clicked his tongue. “An’ then _I’m_ left to piece them back together.”

“Ever asked ‘em why that is?”

“Their actions speak for themselves.”

“Oh, really?” Charlie didn’t look happy and Dudley wondered if he should leave them to their argument or stick around and hear what was up. “’Freely practice our craft and share it with our non-magical comrades’ is the slogan. It doesn’t imply _one_ _iota_ that non-magical members aren’t given their own agency. I bet if you asked anyone you’ve treated, they’d tell you they went in knowing exactly what they were doing.”

“Charlie, you can’t be serious,” Ron huffed. “This isn’t some peaceful sit-in to protest muggleborn discrimination –they’re rioting! Facing down Death Eaters who’ll use the Killing Curse at a moment’s thought. If they went into that without protection, they’re a bigger bunch of morons than I thought.”

“You can’t _force_ people to accept magic they don’t want! They’re _adults._ ” Charlie insisted, and as he went on Ron became paler and paler. “What we _can_ do is make sure they get _out_ –portkeys, safehouses, medical attention. How would you propose we protect them from the Killing Curse, which _can’t be blocked?_ Forbid them from attending? That’s just taking away their right to decide for themselves –even Wizards aren’t safe from that Curse!”

“Charlie, you’re _not_ a member of the _Front_?!” Ron looked horrified, and again Dudley was thrown out of his frying pan. “Do you have any idea how many of them I’ve had to keep from _dying_?”

“And we appreciate it more than you know,” Charlie said sincerely. “But how many of those were repeat offenders?”

Ron stalled, an odd look passing over his face that Dudley had seen from time to time over the last few weeks; something spasmed in Ron’s limbs and he was forced to sit back down, and he stared up at his brother like he didn’t even know who he was.

“Only one or two,” he said flatly.

“We don’t repeat mistakes, and _everyone_ knows the risks.”

Hermione placed a hand on Charlie’s arm, which seemed to bring him back down. “And that’s why we asked you to stop in,” she levelled a fairly severe look in Ron’s direction considering that they were childhood friends –or maybe because of it. “You two should talk this over in private. Later.”

Hermione and Charlie retreated to one of the nearby meeting rooms, and Ron’s blankness faded a little to be replaced by an upset, furious look. He picked himself up out of the chair with effort and staggered away, presumably back up to his infirmary where he could have a little privacy. Sirius made a tired sigh and looked at Dudley apologetically.

“Sorry about the drama,” he said. “It may not look it, but Ron’s the most affected out of all of us. He doesn’t even care about the war –he just wants it to be over.”

“I get it,” Dudley assured him. “I’ll talk to ‘im.”

Dudley did indeed find Ron holed up in the infirmary, slamming his sturdiest medical equipment around in an effort to reorganize his cabinets but really just making it all more complicated. Besides the still unknown patient at the end of the row of beds the place was empty, and Dudlet took a seat on one of the open beds before he got Ron’s attention.

“You’re bein’ an idiot,” he said, and Ron snarled at him wordlessly, flinging a crutch out to smack him on the shin –Dudley kicked it away with little fuss. “Winnin’ a war means doin’ things you don’t want, y’know. Makin’ allies with people who you won’t always agree with.”

“I _know!_ ” Ron spat. “Doesn’t mean I can’t bloody well hate it!”

It was easy to forget how different things were in the Human World.

Dudley wasn’t religious, not like Hamaru, but even if he had been it wasn’t like anyone particularly cared. Insofar as he was concerned his inclinations leaned to the food-based tenets of the Gourmet Religion and the new trend of striving for the ideals Chef Goddess Froese had held in life. Hamaru was a Knight through and through, and Dudley was a worshipper of Ingredients, and that didn’t really affect their day to day as much as one might think.

Together for so long, certain things bent and faded into one another, almost by design. Hamaru’s Cells demanded higher level Ingredients, so Dudley trained in Food Honour. The Faith made Dudley’s palate more sensitive to added hormones or pesticides, so he might as well avoid the stuff altogether even if he didn’t really follow the Faith.

Dudley had just accepted his cousin’s eating habits altogether, really, because it was too much of a hassle to try and make separate meals on the road; no pork, beef, halal or kosher, no alcohol (well, maybe not that one), nothing manufactured or treated with pesticides. But even saying that, Hamaru and he regularly disregarded those guidelines, whether because there was no other option while roughing it or their host gave them a meal that they would _never_ refuse over something as banal as dietary preference, or even if Dudley simply wanted to try something that fell outside it.

It was easy to forget in an environment like that how seriously some people could take things in the _stupidest_ of scenarios.

“Actually, it does.” Ron looked at him like he was crazy, so Dudley elaborated. “Look, I get you hate this war. You want it done just like everyone else, you’re tired, you’ve sacrificed for it.” Dudley didn’t know the full story behind the crutches, but he could make an educated guess. “You think I don’t get it? You think I like the fact that, back home, everyone calls my Otchan a tyrant and says he should’a just let the UN steamroll in to fuck Jiddal over the same as they did fifty years ago? You think I like that everywhere we go we have to uphold the Revolution against reactionaries and reformists and everyone in between? That Hamaru has to worry about his family getting assassinated?”

Ron had stopped raging and was staring at him now, focused completely on what Dudley was saying. “When allies pop up, you should accept their solidarity to their face, and keep your disagreements to an internal debate, otherwise you risk alienatin’ the very people who are willing to _help you._ Ideological differences won’t matter when the enemy lambasts your efforts –you’re all the scourge of your oppressors and they won’t give a damn except to cheer when you divide yourselves.” Dudley stood up again and dusted off his pant legs. “In Jiddal, if we’d had supporters come out of nowhere so early on, you can bet there would’nt’ve been much hesitation to accepting them. But it’s been seven years, and we’re only now convincing people. You guys’re lucky.”


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything.

SPOILERS

“Might I sit here?” Hamaru asked, and then straightened up as Neville looked from his papers to meet his eyes, aware that the other man was evaluating him before he responded. Neville was ensconced at the library’s only table and while Hermione and Sirius were still awake down in the kitchen, all else were either away or asleep by now. The burnt orange light cast by the ancient lampshade threw Neville into a warm relief; even the sharp paleness of his skin, the sickly tint to it, looked softened and healthy in such a setting.

“You can’t sleep?” Neville eventually asked, and gestured for Hamaru to take the chair across from him, even moving a few books so the tea tray he’d brought along could be set down. There were already small heaps of reference books around the legs of the table, and Hamaru was careful not to knock into any as he sat.

“It is more that I do not wish to,” he admitted. Hamaru carefully poured two cups of steaming tea and then passed Neville a cup –the crisp smell of Bergamot instantly filled the air between them. “It has weighed upon me, Longbottom. I am curious as to your vision for the end.”

“How would I want to die, you mean?” Neville guessed with some amount of humour –a whole eyebrow raised alongside a corner of his mouth. “That is a tad personal.”

Hamaru shook his head. “Nay, I speak of this struggle. What shall follow your enemies’ defeat? And where should you endeavour to be on that day?” For once, the Army’s new leader looked surprised; Hamaru took a sip of tea and then rested his chin on the heel of his palm. “I do trust you’ve not simply been fighting for the ‘greater good’.”

“You’d be correct,” Neville continued to look a little thrown off, but in the relaxed air of the room it didn’t appear as though he was _put off_. “I’ve been thinking as well, lately, at length. What I want for my people.” He took a drink, and when he spoke again it was decidedly less settled. “You are up to speed on what you’ve missed, history wise?”

“It was an effort, but yes.” There was one benefit, at least, to being stuck in the base so long. “Both magical and not.”

“Then, you may have seen the... decline, overall. Over the last half century.” Neville put forth. “Not just of the economy. Births, registries, seats in Hogwarts. Living standards across the board –even those who still claim ‘nobility’ are restless.”

“The same is to be said of my home,” Hamaru had an idea of where Neville was going, and he felt a little vindicated that he had pegged the other man so well, early on. Neville was certainly intelligent, and if Hamaru was correct, was chugging along towards the same conclusion that had pushed so many others in the world to action.

“Jiddal is a backwards county, make no mistake.” Hamaru began. “The population is scarce from famine and war, uneducated and with nay a skilled tradesman in ten as another were to have in three. Surrounded on all sides, save one, by hostile armies, we hold onto the gains of the Revolution by the skin of our teeth. Recently, we’ve found allies and the promising situations abroad have begun to bear fruit. The people of other countries in crisis have witnessed our effort, and they yearn also for what they might achieve, now that their mindset and conditions have caught up. It has been a hard time. But through it all, there has been the end in our minds, what we strive for.” Match hadn’t cared, before even Takimaru knew him, about more than offering a temporary solution for the children of Nerg; but time and experience change many things in a man.

“You cannot make half a Revolution, or try to merely control the existing system; and you can do none of it for ever, especially not on your own.” Hamaru told him, not because he thought Neville did not know such, but because he wanted to see the same spark that was in Neville’s words show in his eyes.

“And it cannot go back to the way it once was.”

Neville stared down at the papers underneath his hands –like Match, he always seemed to be surrounded by them, by letters and reports and theoretical writings, all of it he desperately attempted to stay on top of without many others he could delegate to. Unlike Match, Neville could not simply go out into the thick of the fight. He was the backbone of this effort, and should he be too weak to carry it through to the end Hamaru had resigned himself to doing what he must, as he had before. He would not stand idly by as something as absurd as _compromise_ won the day.

“It can’t go back. Not to the Court of Old, nor the days of peace,” Neville murmured. “It _isn’t_ _right_ that the world is this way.”

“No. Horror without end, you know this well.” Hamaru seized at this, their common thought. “While more homes stand empty than there are homeless, the epidemic persists, never to be solved. People are pressed – _forced_ to choose between food and rent, or medical bills, or school debts. Most could not handle even 100 £ further expense a month. Workers put in longer hours for less pay than ever, fewer benefits, but all of it precarious and part time or on commission. This too and infrastructure crumbles, funding for public services slashed all and sundry, and the times may be better but they never become _good._ ”

“And always another war,” Neville said.

“Yes,” Hamaru agreed quietly. “And it shall only become worse. You hath seen it yourself, is it not so?”

“It’s in the open, now.” Neville said severely. “Blaming muggles or magical humanoids or so-called ‘blood traitors’, appealing to the instinctual want for prosperity by pushing a scapegoat. And since our side did not offer any concrete solutions –only tripe about acceptance and integration, the people we might have won after Grindelwald were pushed in _his_ direction, instead.”

Hamaru let Neville run his course, impressed. Many times, when he spoke with leaders purporting to be sympathetic to Jiddal, it didn’t matter their size, they held illusions in all manner of incorrect notions. It was to be expected, of course –the conditions one lives under inevitably leave their mark in a variety of ways, especially without an alternative for people craving change to look to. Still, it grated.

Some thought reforms alone could change society, and while a reform should be fought for if it could improve the lives of working people, it could not be the end goal, simply because it could just as easily be clawed back as it was originally granted, just as soon as profits dipped enough. Others were willing to go so far, and then thought they should _stop;_ whether they didn’t believe the people following them were ready or awoke to the gravity of their actions, it was misguided all the same. Hamaru had met people who were far too rigid in their tactics, and those who vacillated too much. He had dealt with officials who looked down on the people who had brought them so far, and those who saw the IGO and UN positively –regardless that they were organizations controlled solely by the rich and powerful.

Hamaru preferred those who were thrust into their positions unwillingly, or through careerist avenues –with them, all he had to do was suggest to the rank and file members that they should make positive demands upon them. Sooner or later, the leadership would be exposed as bankrupt or weak-willed when they could not – _would_ not –commit to the revolutionary aspirations of their membership. Hamaru would never claim to have all the answers, nor would he delude himself into thinking that there was a straight and sure shot to overthrowing things once and for all, but he _did_ follow concrete examples and experience.

Neville was the rare but precious sort, who only needed to be prod in the right direction and he would surge forward all on his own, whose unerring class instinct would bring him nearly the whole way.

“So, do you have an answer?” Hamaru asked once Neville had been silent longer than a minute, thinking hard on all of this. “I should still like to hear it.”

Neville nodded absently, his eyes still a little glazed. “I do, just a moment.” Then he stood and walked over to a small bookshelf that was propped up a few feet away from the fireplace. He spent a moment stoking the coals with the poker and fed a few small sticks into it to keep the small flame going before he took a thin, red paperback from the very bottom shelf and returned to the table. Once he sat down, he gave Hamaru a considering look that lasted only a few scant seconds before he proceeded to recite from the little book.

“I wish the day to arrive  
when I look to your eyes as I am hung.  
No regard for me left, no fondness where  
once, my praises long were sung.

Now a crowd is gathered here.  
A raucous show they should see to-day.  
Clamour for blood, my death shall pass,  
yes, this to see I earnes’ly pray.

In my youth their place was mine.  
We fought for a shining horizon yond’r.  
Now I, content to see them go  
for on my sacrifice, none shall pond’r.”

Hamaru waited a beat after Neville stopped speaking, until he was sure the poem was over. “Superb. Did you write such yourself?”

Neville inclined his head and placed the book down on a stack by his feet, out of reach. Hamaru sorely wished to look through the rest, but he suspected Neville wasn’t usually so free with it. “I stopped writing such things long ago,” he said, older than his seventeen years. “Poetry doesn’t actually change the world. But it encapsulates my feelings on the matter.”

“Tell me of it?” Hamaru bade.

“I was inspired by a quote from Proudhon, who I don’t agree with ideologically, but have found his writings illuminating. ‘I dream of a society in which I would be guillotined as a conservative’.” Neville made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Everything you outlined, I could not put it into words, but I want to make a world where those things can _never_ happen. I want to kill _him,_ yes, but past that we need to destroy what pushed him to power, which allows some families to starve while others have robes thread in gold, which would give purebloods instant access to high positions while muggleborns no less capable languish with the dregs of wages.”

Neville paused, and then he touched a signet ring on the middle finger of his right hand. “My parents died in the loss of St. Mungo’s. But they were lost to me my whole life –a distant cousin, high up in _his_ inner circle, tortured them until insanity. I don’t know why she did it. I could never understand why someone could go so far. The Dark Lord’s entire philosophy supposedly hinges upon preserving wizard kind, and yet. Nothing by hypocrisy.” In the silence that followed such a personal statement, Hamaru laid a hand on Neville’s wrist and did not speak. “I thought for a long time, she must have been mentally unwell, to stoop to such lows. And after all this time, she probably is. But back then, when I was a babe and she was scant years older than my parents? No, I don’t believe it. The _how_ of it, that...”

They were quiet, the only noise the hum of the lamp lightbulb which, Hamaru had noticed a few days prior, was lit without any apparent cord or energy source.

Hamaru didn’t understand this society’s particulars, he had to admit. The sharp divide between magic users and non-magical people seemed at best more trouble than it was worth; granted, that divide had been in place about as long as the _lack_ of divide between Gourmet Cell users and those who couldn’t use them had been in place in his own homeland. It was difficult to look on another’s perspective and understand, especially when it came to worldviews antithetical to your own. Hamaru would be equally as unable to understand the position of a CEO or politician, obviously evidenced in his inability to come to any type of peace with Mansom or Rin.

But he could imagine the _hows_ that Neville did not speak. The years of subtle, even overt discrimination toward those with ‘lesser blood’, the pervasive use of them as a convenient reason for this community’s decline. Artificially skewed statistics, like the interesting reports Hermione had lent him that on the one hand examined the proposals that Muggleborns, if left be in the non-magical world and not brought into schooling, would eventually just slide back into obscurity; there were so few of them born, after all. But on the other hand then exposed the very real truth that in both Grindelwald and this current Dark Lord’s original terrors, the Ministry’s records had been infiltrated and used to hunt down and presumably murder many of the children who had shown themselves earlier than eleven.

Hypocrisy indeed, as Neville rightly said. The man behind this blood-purist crusade wanted not to preserve his kind, as he touted, but simply to rule over all and sundry at his own discretion. He had not shown any _action_ which convinced Hamaru otherwise, not even in the records of his youth, where it was revealed he had set a Basilisk on his fellow students, on _children._ He’d murdered his first so young, although no one knew exactly when. And it was _not_ the same as those others Hamaru knew who had also committed murder –Hamaru knew well the difference between them.

Hamaru kept his hand where it lay on Neville’s wrist, when the other man made no indication he was going to shrug him away.

“Let us speak no more of it, tonight,” he said. “I am afraid I brought a heavy weight onto your shoulders. Might you recite to me more of the poetry you pen?”

Neville roused himself from his introspection, and this time he let loose a full smile and huffed a laugh. “No, I won’t embarrass myself. But I might be persuaded to tell you a little about my gardening...”

vvv

Several days passed in quiet, earnest preparation; Neville on the phone for hours still, Hermione answering owls at all hours, and the door better left propped open than closed for how little it kept in place. The house was thrown into sharp, brief crisis when, late in the evening not long after Dudley retired for his now routine nightcap with Ron up in the infirmary, Hamaru walked into the drawing room and something in his Cells _shuddered._

The only people in the room were Neville and Fred Weasley at the table, and Hermione sitting next to a stack of books off in the far corner. The pair were bent over their myriad of papers and books on the tabletop and searching for something, troubled expressions clear to be seen. As he jerked to a halt, Hamaru flicked his gaze around and tried to locate the _source_ of the dreadful feeling, bypassing the cabinets and drying herbs and the pot of tea to land finally on a large, ugly silver locket a few inches to the left of Neville’s ledger. He dimly registered that Fred asked him if he was feeling alright, but there was cotton clogging his throat and no air left in his lungs, and he couldn’t find it within himself to _look away._

Upstairs, Ron received a summons to the drawing room five seconds after Dudley abruptly stood and shot out of the infirmary without a word.

“Hama!” Dudley screeched to a halt in the doorway –his cousin was standing a few feet inside the room and the other occupants were hovering next to the table, Hermione half risen out of her chair, looking concerned. When Dudley moved to look his cousin in the face, he saw that Hamaru was staring off into the middle distance, and he didn’t so much as twitch when Dudley waved a hand in front of his eyes. “Hama, Hamaru, snap out of it,” Dudley tried gently, shaking Hamaru’s shoulder a little. This wasn’t like when Hamaru’s Cells whisked them off, and that wasn’t comforting –behind them, Ron clacked in through the doorway, out of breath. “Hamaru, what is it, cousin?”

“Dursley?” he looked over to Ron, who seemed like he desperately wanted to intervene but probably realized that Dudley knew more about Hamaru’s quirks than he did. “Anything I can do?”

“No, I –well,” Dudley shook his head and focused back on Hamaru. “I don’t know what’s-”

He stopped; Hamaru’s scars had begun to glow and he suddenly slumped forward like a puppet on loose strings, and the same time that his Appetite Demon materialized above him. Dudley backed away instantly and pulled Ron with him, closer to where Fred had dropped his notebook in shock and was swearing something colourful. When the thing lifted its eyes in their direction Dudley barked a warning for everyone to stay very, very still.

Appetite Demons weren’t well understood and Hamaru’s had only manifested twice in his entire life. Echoes of the multitudes of theories as to what they actually _were_ floated through his head –it was hard to even see one in person, let alone _study_ them –Dudley readied his own Cells, just in case.

As all Demons, Hamaru’s was monstrous and twice his size, nearly knocking its head into the ceiling –it was covered in snake scales and had long, limp black hair, with no eyes and a gaping mouth full of disconcertingly human teeth, the whole of it slightly distorted by a light orange fog seeping from its pores. Its stomach was grotesquely bloated underneath the green scales, its elongated arms had two elbow joints each, and most unnerving of all, at least to Dudley, was the jagged scar on its forehead that mirrored his cousin’s exactly.

“What the bloody _fuck_ is that?!” Fred demanded –Dudley shushed him harshly.

“...Hamaru?” he asked tentatively. The Demon’s head tilted slightly to regard him and it tried to hiss something at him, but he could only catch one or two words out of the whole thing. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand. **Can’t understand.** ”

The thing’s teeth clacked together in a way that almost sounded _annoyed_ , and then it swivelled back to face the table. Before anyone could move it raised an arm and Hamaru’s limp arm followed the motion, and it hissed gratingly as it grabbed the big locket and lifted it up.

“What’s he –it – _doing_?” Hermione blurted, but Dudley couldn’t give her an answer. His eyes were glued to the locket in the Demon’s grasp which was slowly opening and billowing smoke –it twisted unnaturally in the air and formed some sort of shape in the space over the Demon’s hand. When it clicked open completely, the shape coalesced into something concrete, and it was-

“Oh, my poor, dear child,” Aimaru said, crooning low over Hamaru’s ear where he was still hanging like a limpet. But the apparition was distorted –parts of it whisped off curls of black smoke and the whites of its eyes kept flickering yellow. “My successor, is that what you think? I shouldn’t dare give such an honour to my only son’s _charity case._ ”

“Hey! You shut your gob about that!” Dudley couldn’t help but snarl, a protective feeling rising in his chest like an angry Garara Gator. The glow in Hamaru’s scars was fading –was he running out of energy? Why was the Demon just staring at this thing? “Hama, wake _up_!”

The smoke-figure wobbled and then melted grossly, like acid had been poured into Aimaru’s eye sockets; when it pieced itself back together again, it wore the glitching face of Taki-ji. “Ah, tis _you_ dogging my son’s steps, yes?” Quite unlike the _real_ Takimaru, this thing’s eyes were wide in crazed focus and it sneered down its nose at him in pure disdain. “I shall never forgive ye, _brat_. I would forbid Hamaru from consorting with ye, did I not know he continued out of _pity_.”

“ _Hama!_ ” Dudley practically shrieked, and he dove forward away from the wizards and under the grasping claws of the apparition so he could shove his Cells into Hamaru’s chest. The glow in his scars flickered and kicked into high gear at the sudden shock to his system, and in one jerked movement the Appetite Demon raised its hand and tore into the locket with its teeth.

There was a deafening scream as the apparition spasmed, suddenly in the Demon’s jaws, and then all was silent as it was swallowed whole.

There was a split second where Dudley heard the wizards in the room hesitantly shift around and more thundering footfalls approaching from the stairs. Then the Demon relaxed, tilted its head back and hissed, “ **Yum,** ” before it dissipated and left Hamaru to drop to the floor in a heap.

“ _Hama!_ ” “Singh!” “Hamaru!” Came the calls from all around the room, only Dudley and Hermione fast enough to catch him before he cracked his head on the hardwood. Hermione kept a hold under one arm while Dudley took the other, and together they lowered Hamaru to the floor so Ron had an easier look at him as he cast whatever diagnostic spells he felt necessary.

“He’s-” Ron stalled at something his magic was telling him; Hermione gently kept her hands at Hamaru’s neck and wrist –checking his pulse, Dudley realized –as his own cushioned his cousin’s head at the spot where his turban met his spine. “How... he’s in _pristine_ condition! There isn’t a single bloody thing-” Ron stopped talking again and furiously began to wave his wand and mutter his spells while Neville and Fred inspected the charred, smoking locket only a few feet away.

“You won’t find anythin’ wrong,” Dudley told him. “That was his-”

Dudley froze involuntarily as a familiar sensation tugged high in his stomach and that old orange light came curling out from under Hamaru’s closed eyes. There were shouts of alarm around them as they flickered, and so as Dudley’s vision was overtaken by the orange he heard not only Hamaru’s breathing in the ‘between space’, but also a panicked gasp of pain that he hadn’t expected at _all_.

“–Appetite Demon,” Dudley finished as they re-materialized, his brain already cataloguing the grass under his knees, the sea salt tinge to the air and the high Level Medicine Bee colony about two dozen feet to their right. The sudden drain of his vitality hit him like a truck, and as he regained his sight and senses he heard a shout and turned to see a few people in IGO uniforms running toward them. Then he looked again, and Hermione collapsed into unconsciousness opposite him on Hamaru’s other side.

“By Froese’s Cutting Board, _fuck me_ ,” Dudley had the strength to say, before he too fell into a dead faint.

Vvv

Neville’s heart pounded in his chest as he strode down the city street towards the meeting place Hermione had agreed upon not two days ago: Crass Tacks, a non-magical upstairs bar sure to be fit to bursting on a Friday night. He hadn’t actually been outside of headquarters beyond the back garden for nearly four months, and even this particular jaunt didn’t mean he was alone. Remus and Ron had only slackened their objections when Draco put forward the idea of a hidden security detail.

It was just as well that Neville was the only one who could take Hermione’s place in this, since Triple S and The Front were potential allies too important to be seen by a less experienced comrade and too straight edged to trust it if Neville had sent Sirius or Draco in Hermione’s place. Caution was a factor beaten out by tactics and objective need this time, because while Neville would indulge his friends’ worry he could not allow such a chance to slip by un-grasped for.

Had it been Hermione in his position, he knew she would make the same choice. Out of all the Army, her duty most closely aligned with his; first, to those Voldemort wanted to eradicate; second, to building the Army; and third, to their comrades. He cared for the others with his entire being, but Neville couldn’t let their end goal erode away just for that, and they understood him in turn. It was as much as he could ask for.

Hamaru and Dursley had thrown a wrench into that careful balance even before they vanished in front of his very eyes, leaving them one less Horcrux to destroy but also without their Head of Staff.

It was a troubling development, but Neville’s stance in the immediate aftermath was clear –since they had no clue where the ‘Human World’ actually was, Fred and George could run their tests but he expected them to return to their duties by the morning. Neville then assured the rest of the Army of his continued confidence in their newest comrades, and took special care to speak privately with Sirius and Remus on the details of what occurred before the disappearance. That all sorted, he left them to their fretting, retreated into the call room and hadn’t emerged for several hours.

There may once have been a time when he could afford to jump to conclusions and throw all of his attention into resolving such a problem, but this was not that time and hadn’t been for years. Instead of trying to get them back, Neville accepted the situation and worked with what he had left; they were already without Hermione, so he couldn’t leave their work without _him_ on top of that.

Besides, their resident ‘Gourmet Knight’ _had_ gained his trust over the last month, tentative and thin though it was. There wasn’t anything Neville could do –why shouldn’t he simply trust that Hamaru and Dursley would keep his second safe wherever they were, and return at some point as they’d made oath to do?

The bar appeared all of a sudden on the corner of a very old, very soot-blackened building –the ground level was made up of a convenience store and a bustling Roti take out place, with the heavy brass coloured door to the upstairs tucked away behind one of the support columns like an afterthought. Neville stopped briefly to signal that his guards should stay back (and by the blue sparks they sent up, they got the memo but weren’t happy about it) and then he went in.

It wasn’t what he expected, but Neville quickly understood why it had been chosen as a meeting place. The tables were sectioned off into little alcoves or surrounded by couches, and the sheer amount of ambient noise from the other patrons rendered low to mid level eavesdropping spells ineffective. The place also appeared to be understaffed, which meant that if they took care not to look impatient or finish their drinks too fast, their table should be left alone for the most part.

Neville scanned the room and spotted Charlie a few tables away from the far corner with a brown haired bloke beside him that Hermione had mentioned extensively during her preparation for this meeting. It only made him surer of this notion of allying with Triple S –regardless of their differences in tactics, he was positive that somewhere along the way, their goals aligned.

Charlie saw him approaching before Nigel did, and he stood up instantly, alarmed. Neville rather belatedly realized that his appearance here, let alone _outside of Grimmauld Place_ , was highly irregular.

“Apologies for the change in plans, Charlie. Something tipped the scales.” Charlie and Nigel both relaxed, and Neville once again had to thank Hermione for her foresight. “I had to keep my guard up, you understand.”

“Thanks for telling me up front,” Charlie moved to the side so Neville could slide into the booth and sit between them; he shook hands with Nigel, who despite being a good deal older than either of them was looking their way with no small amount of respect.

“...It’s only us three, anyhow,” Nigel confirmed, and the unspoken tension that was hanging over them left the table quickly. They didn’t speak again until the waitress came by to grab their order and take a card for their tab, and after she was gone again Charlie threw up a few complicated charms to catch the few spells that the noise level wouldn’t already render moot, as well as to obscure the view of their table slightly. Neville’s hands itched for the weight of his ledger –but he’d left it at Grimmauld. Were this to go sour, he had to safeguard as many of his people as possible.

“Thank you both for meeting with us,” Neville opened with, straightening his posture now that he was speaking for the organization. “The danger we face is evident, and we were glad to see others who weren’t simply rolling over in _his_ wake.”

“It’s been some time since we’ve been active in the U.K.” Nigel Prewett, the only Squib in Molly and Arthur’s extended family, said. “Things have changed since I was a child. Fewer purebloods, fewer Squibs, as you can imagine. We’re not the section we once were.”

“Internationally, you still have an impressive network. Trust me when I say your reputation precedes you.”

Nigel nodded in acknowledgement. “That’s apparent. What I don’t so much understand is why you’ve called _both_ our organizations here, at the same time, no less,” he gestured to Charlie, but not rudely. “Putting aside that Charlie and I are related, those we represent are quite different in structure and aims, recent history and broader tactics. I’m sorry to say, but it seems illogical.”

“Taken at surface value, it is,” Neville admitted. They paused as their waitress returned with a few pints of beer and some napkins. Once she left, Charlie tapped the glasses and while they remained the same at a glance, the contents switched from beer to tea –regardless of location, drinking during alliance talks wasn’t something Neville wanted to encourage, and he nodded in thanks. “But consider that the Defence Army has just recently split from the Order, our focus on both internationalism and coordinated action, and the utter barrenness of any other anti-regime groups, and you may be able to see our reasoning.”

His two guests paused briefly to go over his words, and Nigel’s eyes sharpened as the gears turned.

“It didn’t sound as if you were _all_ in agreement,” Charlie pointed out; Neville sighed.

“An impossibility even in a small organization such as ours. We’ve had intense discussion on the matter since then, I assure you, and have come to an accord.” He looked closely at each of them, trying to impress his seriousness in regards to this topic. “Gentlemen, let me be frank. You may have heard that we voted to split based on organizational differences and the question of growth –this is mostly true. But underlying this was a fundamental difference which turned out to be irreconcilable. Dumbledore’s ultimate goal is to defeat the Dark Lord, and then to restore the Wizarding World to the era of peace it enjoyed after Grindelwald. This is as far as he is willing to go.”

Charlie perked up then, catching a bit of what he was implying. “Most would hope so.”

“ _Most_ do not realize that it is not possible, just as the non-magical world cannot return to the boom of the post-war fifties and sixties.” Neville wished he’d had more time to talk with Hamaru about this before the man’s disappearance –he was only scratching the surface of the problems the Knight had outlined, the interconnectedness of every facet of every problem they had to face like a towering, impassable wall. One you couldn’t ever hope to climb over or chip away at, but that could potentially be smashed to bits if given the right conditions. “We are still discussing how it may be done. But know this –it is false that our goals are not similar. In fact, our three organizations are probably the only ones in the U.K. that are even _considering_ it.”

Nigel seemed to have understood as well. What Neville was almost openly talking about would have been considered treasonous in the pre-Grindelwald era, but with the past two Wizarding wars and a third emerging on the same lines –not Fascist, not quite, but closer to it than simple racism –it was quickly becoming apparent that it was the only way forward. The only way they could prevent another catastrophe like this from ever happening again, anywhere.

“Charlie, the Magic Liberation Front keeps its’ finger on the pulse of every surge of resentment toward this regime. Nigel, the Society for Squibs’ Solidarity has a network across the globe, with contacts that span farther than just the families of the membership. If you enter into this fight with us, we will wholeheartedly fight for you in turn.” Saying it, Neville felt a veil of certainty settle over his shoulders, this one of the few times in his life that he held no lingering doubts even deep in his heart.

If he were to tell his grandmother, she would say he was insane to want such a thing after all that their people had gone through. But the world wasn’t simply black and white, nor was it a case anymore of what was best for their children. If things kept on this way, there would soon be no children left to teach, and then where would they be?

Neville knew the answer to that. He knew long before Hamaru had dropped in and vilified all of his conclusions, describing the conditions in his adopted country and the actions that the established order would go to prevent the people taking their destiny into their own hands. He knew long before he’d gone to talk to Draco in the Come-and-Go Room, where his dear friend had broken down and confessed that his deepest fears had nothing to do with blood, nothing to do with the tattoo on his arm. He knew even before no one listened to Ginny in second year, even before Hermione turned red in shame at her ignorance in first year, maybe even when he was pushed off of Blackpool Pier because of what the alternative was.

“The first war was a tragedy, this second is a farce. If something is going to destroy this community, I’d rather it be those that have the correct reasons,” With that, Neville reached into his jacket pocket and drew out an innocuous sheet of parchment, newly inked and soon to be kept in the back folder of his ledger. “And the right trajectory. If you’d be willing, I should think _this_ is the place to start.”

Vvv

Hamaru awoke feeling oddly refreshed, almost as if he’d gone for a few hours in one of the spas in Life, and when he opened his eyes it was to a light grey room he, unfortunately, was familiar with. He confirmed his suspicions by checking that there was an IV Bell Pepper hooked up to the crook of his arm, and that the beeping monitor in the upper left corner of his vision had the right logo, and when he saw it was such, well, the blinking light that switched from red to green let him know he certainly wasn’t going to be left in peace. He only had a few minutes to mentally steel himself –not nearly enough time –when the reason for it burst into the room in a great bang of noise and gusto.

The door slammed so hard into the wall that the knob broke clear through the drywall, and in the brief, ensuing silence Hamaru could just about imagine Ma-chichi’s sympathetic sigh.

“Brat! You’ve finally come to visit!” Mansom boomed cheerfully. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were avoiding us!”

“Perish the thought.” Hamaru felt, after each time he encountered Mansom, that he should’ve used the opportunity to hone his self-control and compassion, but mostly in the moment all he could feel was a headache coming on. The massive man plonked into an equally massive chair near the end of the hospital bed and slapped Hamaru’s ankle, probably trying to be friendly but actually causing him to hiss as all of his joints protested at once; Mansom at least had the decency to look apologetic.

“We all know you’re just playing hard to get anyway!” Mansom guffawed loudly, and Hamaru finally gave in and put a hand over his eyes in frustration –and embarrassment at the phrasing.

“By Acacia’s Full Course...”

Mansom didn’t seem to hear him. “But kid, try giving us some warning! You nearly gave Zenichi and Elif heart attacks. Now, we aren’t gonna charge you for the medical treatment-”

“How _generous._ ”

“-so I think in exchange you outta tell me what Ingredient made your Cells level up like this!” Mansom gestured like he’d thought up some brilliant scheme to get Hamaru to open up to him, and in the expectant pause after such a declaration Hamaru reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his wallet from the stack of his personal effects laid there.

“I do think the bill sounds a balmier option.”

“Hey! You –You fuckin’...” Out of breath, Dudley appeared in the doorway, looking like he’d just sprinted a country mile. Already Hamaru felt himself ease a little, the presence of his Partner soothing to his ire when Dudley wasn’t the one actively egging it on. “I _told you_ not to –to bother ‘im you great ape!”

“Don’t know when to quit, do ya? Couldn’t’a picked a more easygoing Chef, huh, brat?” Mansom stood up and with one hand seized Dudley by the scruff of his neck and swung him around, IV stand and all –Dudley hit the seat of the previously occupied chair with a pained ‘oof!’. “But fine, fine, I get it, ya still don’t like me. Guess I’ll just go grill the fresh meat.”

“’Fresh meat’?” Hamaru repeated, not liking the sound of that; from the chair, Dudley groaned in abject misery, like he’d forgotten something important. “Dudley?”

“Y’ain’t gonna like this,” Dudley shook his head through another wince, and Hamaru was acutely aware that regardless of what he’d said, Mansom hadn’t yet moved from where he stood in the doorway. “Granger came with us.”

__

Hermione came to in an odd, light grey room she had never seen before in her life. Her head felt fuzzy, as if she’d been shot up with some sort of calming drug, and opposite to its intended effect she could already feel her heart rate pick up and her awareness sharpen in response. Ever since second year, she had sworn to herself that she would never again let anything, knowingly or otherwise, make her lose control of herself so thoroughly. By the increased beeping noise from the monitors surrounding her, she guessed that they hadn’t planned for her to wake up quite so soon, nor for her magic to go coursing through her system intent on finding the tranquilizer and neutralizing it. Not that anyone ever expected _that._

As more of whatever was affecting her dissipated, the door opened somewhere to her left, and she felt her mind start to churn forwards again, no longer confined to the edges of this room. When she saw it was Dudley who poked his head in looking supremely bored, the energy she normally funnelled into her paperwork and perimeter checks and routine sunk its claws into her returning awareness and then focused on _him._

“ _Where am I?!_ ”

“Oh boy,” Dudley rocked back on his heels, then edged into the room proper –like her, he was in hospital garb, and he brought with him an IV stand on wheels and an exhausted slump to his shoulders. Hermione focused on the now exposed skin of his arms that he nearly always kept covered with his chef jacket even as her ire slowly ticked upwards in the background at the lack of a prompt answer. The odd raised, grey-brown patches on his skin were interspersed with scars just like Hamaru, if slightly less dramatic an amount; she had yet to ask if they were birthmarks or something else.

A noise at the door swung her attention away again, and even as she recognized it she couldn’t help but go with where it wanted to take her –the lack of familiar surroundings had her on edge and until she could put a solid dozen wards between her and whatever was outside that door, there was no way she was going to recover herself anytime soon. One of the two people who came into the room just then was Hamaru, who as opposed to his cousin was dressed normally, if a little more formally than the last few months, and he was accompanied by an enormous man with scruffy black hair and a curious tilt to his face.

With effort, Hermione forced her mind to lock onto Hamaru, and not get distracted by all the variables in the room, by everything she wasn’t aware of. He was the most put together right now, and whereas Dudley was known to be a pain just for the hell of it, Hamaru could at least be trusted to answer her when she asked him something.

“Singh, where am I?” she repeated, not sounding as calm as she was going for.

“Granger, I shall explain to you-”

Hermione cut him off before his flowery language could drag this out, even if he didn’t mean it to. “You had _better_ tell me where we are, Singh.” She sorely wanted to raise her arms, but try as she might she still felt drained and couldn’t muster the strength to do much more than glare while a sweat broke out on the back of her neck. “This isn’t anywhere in the Army _or_ the Order’s purview. So help me, if you’ve double cross-”

“You did travel along with us, to the Human World. IGO headquarters,” Hamaru said promptly, and from where he had sunk into a nearby chair, Dudley snorted. “We cannot know of how this happened, but it seems to be as Dudley came along with me in the past.”

“That’s-” Hermione stalled as the words registered fully, and then her barely there control snapped like a rubber band. “We can’t _afford_ this! I have to meet with potential allies tomorrow! _Send me back_!”

“Look, we’re sorry, Granger,” Dudley spoke up, sounding disconcertingly gentle. “It’s not an on command thing. Hama’s been pulled around by his Cells willy-nilly for a decade now.”

Hermione rarely felt herself slipping from her own grasp these days, mostly by design. She kept everything _just so_ because with all she had to contend with as Neville’s second, she would have drowned otherwise. But now the notion of merely _slipping_ would have been appealing; she could feel her hands begin to shake and hastily shoved down the urge to hyperventilate even as the sweat on her neck spread out with a horrible, creeping cool. She was _not_ going to lose it in front of these people she barely knew, in a place she could not trust the safety of.

To try and curb it a little, she thought about the folders she had left behind, in case she ever died or was taken prisoner. Neville and Draco would have those, at the least. But their split was so recent –even back in the ‘Dumbledore’s Army’ days, it had been her and Neville at each others’ backs, together. They were practically glued at the hip after second year.

Hermione cut those thoughts off and visualized slamming a wall down between them and the facilities she _needed_ right now. The calm came back _almost_ naturally and she painted the veneer of professionalism back onto her face with the ease of years of practice –this was not the place for any manner of honest reaction.

The large man’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline, but he still didn’t say anything.

“What happened to the Horcrux?” Hamaru and Dudley shared a mystified look, and so Hermione elaborated. “The locket.”

“Ah, well,” Hamaru appeared sincerely regretful. “T’was eaten. Had I known of its importance, I should never have dared approach it. I pray your forgiveness.”

“Imp –­ _eaten!?_ ” Hermione was quickly running out of ways to bend this all back into a logic that her mind could process, even if just for a moment. She took a breath, then another, and then said with a tremendous strain evident in her voice, “ _What_ do you _mean_ it was _eaten_.”

“Hah!” The large man exclaimed, as if right now was the best time to make himself known to her, when she was teetering on the edge of an explosion. He gazed wonderingly at the three of them, and Hermione noticed Hamaru cover his eyes just before the man said, “The daring duo is actually _scared_ of you, little chica!” The sentence again made Hermione’s overclocked brain stall, and when it came whirring back in it took the words and funnelled them into her distress, which made her turn on him despite his size.

“I’m the coordinator of an entire resistance effort under an authoritarian regime!” She thundered, and despite her best efforts her eyes felt hot and prickly and her breath began seizing up –not being able to move was making this worse, so much more _humiliating_. “The longer I’m here, the more of my comrades die without me! Do _not_ speak to me as if I’m _entertainment!”_

She would have gone on, heedless to the sharp pains in her chest and the shuddering of her arms, but at that moment Dudley stood up and blocked the large man’s line of sight. “Out, Mansom. You too, Hama,” he added, and actually _growled_ when ‘Mansom’ tried to apologize. “I said _out!_ I don’t care if you’re the President, I’ll take you on-”

“Mansom, should you acquiesce, I shall tell of what Ingredients have proven compatible for myself,” Hamaru said, and although reluctantly, that got Mansom to move out of her personal space, which went a long way to lessening the strain on her thoughts. Her breathing evened out slightly once it was only her and Dudley in the room, once there were less things to focus on, less unfamiliarity to contend with. Painstakingly, she focused on one thing after another, in a clean, brisk line all around the room, until her path led to Dudley still facing the door with a stiff, uncomfortably straight posture.

“This’s why you’re a full-timer?” Dudley asked in a mild voice, like when he asked about the meeting schedule or how Remus was faring with the finances. “Some kinda sensory overload?”

“Something like that,” Hermione said vaguely, not in the mood to delve into her mental illness right now when she was only barely coming back to herself. “How long’re we going to be here, Dursley?”

Dudley shrugged a shoulder and hissed as he jostled something painful –he still wasn’t looking in her direction, but that was fine. It was better, if she was going to be honest. “Could be a week, could be six months.”

A wave of nausea slowly crashed over her, but Hermione stuck it out without puking anything up. “It’s too much, I _can’t_ be away that long.” Dudley nodded. “Where the hell are we? Tell me there’s something useful I can do here, Dursley. I can’t just _wait._ ”

“It’s the headquarters of the International Gourmet Organization, the IGO. They regulate Ingredients and all adjacencies in this Age of Gourmet. With 360 member nations, it has an even larger influence than the UN. It’s still a shitty, for-profit Capitalist-” He stopped and took a long breath. “You could probably look into talking with their Human Resources, maybe get some ideas on managing time and overlapping schedules. They have a gym, too. If it drags on for longer than a month, we’ll be on the next boat out and off to Simple Diet Hill. That was Mansom, the President. He’s annoying and an idiot, so don’t feel like you need to humour any apology he gives you. Serves him right.”

“You don’t exactly sound fond of him, though you act familiar.” Hermione was feeling a little less out-of-her-head now that she was getting some context, now that there were clear sections of this place she could pick apart.

“You could say that. Maybe I’ll tell you some time.” Dudley glanced over his shoulder at her, the dark shadows under his eyes betraying just how tired he was. “Look, rest for now. That was a weird jump even for Hamaru, and it’s always a bitch the first time. Think about how to occupy yourself come tomorrow.” He moved to leave, before pausing as if remembering something. “Hama decided to leave Rhssa with you for now, by the by. Treat her nice, yeah?”

Hermione looked down to where Dudley was looking and saw the odd little snake-slug pet of Hamaru’s curled up next to her legs, and she wondered how she had been so far gone that she hadn’t even noticed –it raised its head and gave a sleepy hiss, which Dudley answered with an amused look on his face. A non-magical Parselmouth still threw her off, even after weeks of seeing it in action at Grimmauld. She quietly agreed that she would accommodate... Rhssa, which made Dudley cheer up a bit more and leave without another word.

And when she was finally alone –mostly –only then did she let her breath hitch and spin out of control enough to release some tension, just for five quiet minutes, before she took the IV out and fell back into a dead sleep.

She was given clearance to leave a few days later, after a suitably cowed Doctor got tired of replacing the IV to no effect, and couldn’t exactly find a reason to keep her bedridden other than the headache she just couldn’t seem to shake. As Dudley suggested, Hermione had spent the time trying to reconcile herself to the situation at hand, and then while her two companions were holed up meeting with Mansom on whatever business, she accepted the ‘President’s’ missive assigning her a guide at least for her first day out of the clinic. She was not approached by Mansom in that time, which Hermione couldn’t say she minded –there must be a reason he seemed to be the only person who could drive Hamaru to actual annoyance and, dare she say it, derision.

Regardless of bullheaded men, the Gourmologist charged with showing her around, Rafaela, was... acceptable. She was prim and tittering, and only about a year or two older than Hermione, which made her wonder about the type of schooling that the ‘Human World’ put its citizens through, and what exactly the IGO _did_ that made them need an entire floating base shaped like a tray of china. But Hermione wasn’t quite ready to open that can of beans, so she followed Rafaela around the compound, noting where the cafeteria and sleeping quarters were, along with the library and other major facilities she would make use of for however much time she was stuck here. She hoped it wasn’t as long as Dudley said it might be.

“Why are they whispering?” Hermione asked her guide when they sat down for lunch –the island was larger than expected, and they still had hours left to go. She had noticed throughout the morning that she got odd looks from the other IGO employees here, and even now there were some at nearby tables sneaking glances her way and then quickly averting their eyes when she caught them.

“Hm, well, it’s probably because you came here with _those_ two,” Rafaela demurred, as if that explained anything. When she caught Hermione’s quirked eyebrow, she looked confused. “What? It’s fairly obvious.”

“I’m not up on current ‘Human World’ events.” Hermione reminded her, having come to the conclusion with Hamaru that it would probably be easier for her to claim a ‘Gourmet World’ background, regardless that wherever the U.K. was, it looked less and less likely to be even close.

“Oh! Right, of course! Sorry, it’s just-” the other woman laughed a little self-consciously. “I mean, to _not know_ about Jiddal.”

“Give me a rundown.”

She tittered and peeked at the table of scientists who were just clearing out –she lowered her voice anyway, like this wasn’t something that was spoken of in polite company. It reminded Hermione of how the older generation sometimes talked about Grindelwald.

“Jiddal’s a desolate country that’s completely bucked IGO and UN help. It’s controlled by the Gourmet Mafia, and the Don, Match, is one of Hamaru Singh’s fathers.” Hermione blinked, not expecting that. “They have no Ingredients to speak of, so their citizens starve, and they won’t let the royal family back in the borders. A few years ago there was this guy who really represented the people, President Odai, and Match murdered him. He’ll even turn away relief shipments.”

“That... sounds awful,” Hermione said slowly, but something sounded off. “If the people don’t support Match, why haven’t they ousted him yet? Like in-” She tried to remember what Dudley and Hamaru had said before, that night of the split. “-Sand Garden?”

“Well, in Sand Garden they had IGO help,” Rafaela answered simply. “But no one can get into Jiddal’s borders, and so we can’t offer support.”

“But the Mafia couldn’t keep _everyone_ out. They’d have to constantly be at the borders, which would over extend them greatly unless they had a membership in the hundred thousands,” Hermione reasoned. “I’ve heard them talk about it before –it didn’t sound like they had very vast numbers. Are they actually a big group?”

Rafaela turned a little red as she floundered for an answer. “Well, no, they only have about four or five thousand members –but they’re incredibly violent! It’s no surprise those poor people can’t resist. They even forced the citizens to take over the UN run mines, guarded by the military.”

“Wait, the _UN military_ was beaten by starving people and a couple thousand Mafia members?” Hermione asked incredulously –if that was possible, she wanted to look at their tactical choices and arms. “Would you look up an article on that? I want to see the numbers.”

“Um –oh, well, sure, I could.” Rafaela pulled her tablet out and tapped away, holding it so Hermione could see; she scrolled a little before finding a piece by the ‘Gourmet Herald’, but Hermione stopped her and asked if they could look at a few of the more recent articles.

One from the Ingredients’ Inquirer was an interview with a ‘defector’ years after the incident, and reading closer showed they were talking about a former UN military officer who had joined the Jiddalan miners in what was called a ‘workers’ revolt’. Another piece by GourmTimes was published in the midst of the ‘miners’ strike’ and detailed how the UN ordered the miners back to work and sent in the military to break the strike, only to find the Mafia defending the picket lines. Even the Gourmet Herald article was talking about how the Mafia had ‘tricked’ the miners to their side and then the military into turning against their orders and surrendering the mines to their control.

Feeling a little sick, Hermione handed the tablet back to Rafaela, who looked like she had swallowed something foul. “I think I’d rather not hear any more about this, thanks.”

The rest of the tour was dampened somewhat by Hermione’s guide’s sour mood, so when the other woman handed her off to one of the Janitors to get her quarters sorted out, Hermione wasn’t sad to see her go. Since Hermione didn’t have any of the Human World’s currency to speak of, the room she was given to stay in next to Hamaru and Dudley’s contained toiletries like a hotel that would be replenished as she used them, and clothes that the cleaning staff had donated or picked up for her from the island’s department store. The room itself was bare; a low twin bed and a dresser, with a nightstand and attached bathroom, and not much else, but it was private and quiet, and that was all Hermione really needed.

Because it was still a public building, she didn’t ward it to _quite_ her full satisfaction –the staff still had to be able to find it –but it was enough to give her a place to collect herself. Hermione would be much happier when she was back in Grimmauld Place, regardless of the people trying to murder her just outside its doors.

Rhssa was still accompanying her, and would be until Mansom was done occupying all of Hamaru and Dudley’s time –Hermione had to admit, it was helping her orient herself a lot quicker to this new place than she would have otherwise. The little snake-slug had turned into a partly tolerated, mostly spoiled fixture of Grimmauld over the month she’d been there with her caretaker –and while Hermione hadn’t interacted with her much, she had spotted Draco slipping Rhssa cabbage during dinner a few times over the weeks.

“Which do you think?” She murmured to the snake-slug, a few of the foreign shirts lain out on the bed. Rhssa bobbed like she actually understood what Hermione said –well, if Dudley could learn Parseltongue... –and then nudged at a red collared shirt that wasn’t too far from what she usually wore at home, and despite feeling a little ridiculous Hermione decided to take the advice. Fashion in the Human World was trippy –even if Mansom was on the stranger end of the scale, she’d still seen an inordinate number of jewel toned trench coats among the IGO Division Chiefs, and that _had_ to be indicative of a wider trend.

Rhssa coiled contentedly up her arm and draped herself over Hermione’s shoulders –she was just slightly too small to keep pace when Hermione walked around –and with that Hermione decided to investigate the library and internet today and maybe try to do a little more research into Jiddal. She wasn’t about ready to ask Hamaru about it, but she didn’t trust what Rafaela had told her about the situation either.

Vvv

Days turned into a week, and Hermione burned her way through the public portions of the library and the articles she could find through Gourm-gle, Rhssa at her side nearly the entire time, and slowly gained an equilibrium that meant she wasn’t constantly teetering on the edge of a breakdown at the fact she was cut off from the Defence Army with no end in sight. As she became a fixture of the cafeteria, she gradually also gathered a small group who would speak mostly normally with her, which she suspected was either because they thought she wasn’t closely involved with the Jiddalan Revolution –or because they thought she _was._

After the first few days, Hamaru and Dudley had become easier to track down, but it soon became clear that whenever an IGO worker higher up than a Division undersecretary was nearby, they acted completely differently to how they conducted themselves around the general workers and support staff. Most jarring was seeing the switch in Hamaru –for the average worker, he was as open and amiable as he was with his cousin, and answered the questions of those who sought him out with real warmth in his voice, even if the query was in bad taste. But at even the slightest hint of a higher up interest, he became rather cool, although still polite, but he was markedly guarded in those interactions, always judging how much he should say. Hermione was rather glad she had no clue of the Knights’ situation, and could avoid such trepidation.

But by the beginning of the second week, the endless reading was –and she did _not_ say this lightly –becoming rather tedious. Learning about the history of IGO relations and Gourmet Cell development and the policies they shared or differed on with the UN was all well and good, but come her return to Grimmauld such information wouldn’t do much to advance the war effort. So with that in mind, Hermione woke up one day in the late morning –still operating on an overnight schedule –and readied her wand to seek her travelling companions out.

The ‘point me’ led Hermione to the hallway Hamaru always turned down on the way to his meetings –but as she followed the spell further it did not take her to where she knew Mansom’s office ought to be. Instead she ended up down a service hallway, to where Dudley was leaned against the wall next to a nondescript door half hidden by a pillar. He took one look at her and nodded quietly, and opened the door for her.

Hamaru turned to regard her from where he’d been giving a lecture at the head of a table packed with service and lower IGO workers, some of whom had been friendly to her over the last few weeks, and some she didn’t recognize.

“Granger,” Hamaru acknowledged, and ignored the worried mumbles from the collected employees. Dudley closed the door behind her and while Hermione logically knew she’d come here on her own, it still felt remarkably like she was now trapped. “Be it urgent, or may it wait?”

“I’ll... sit in, if that’s alright with you,” She replied, and the whispers grew less worried, the attendees assured of her and Hamaru’s familiarity. Hamaru took a moment to think it over, and then smiled, still guarded but no longer on edge from the interruption. He made a motion for Hermione to find a seat, paused, and then continued on with what he had been saying.

“The sheer failure of Bureau Chief Umeda’s policies put further emphasis on the never-ending talks and negotiations regarding the present food shortages, all of which do not change but a thing. This is so to the fact that they are fundamental conflicts of interest, and not accidental misunderstandings. The Christmas Eve program be the most obvious example, but we may easily find countless others.”

“The Eight Gourmet Laws do naught to prevent many lands from the trade in narcotics, exploiting of rare natural resources, nor the rise of the Gourmet Corp and NEO. IGO sponsored anti-poaching treaties are routinely ignored by those industries of interest in such –which then places an additional burden on Revivers. Hankha-Nakh remains an IGO member whilst bucking their ban on the sale of Battle Fragrance, and a UN member despite the bloody reign of the June-Ga. The ecological disaster engulfing Dovalan as result of Kerreland pollutants may garner lip service but has not been addressed in any concrete way, and if you search you shall find that Ouverite is involved in the running of the companies responsible.”

“Moreover,” Hamaru paused again, and took a breath, set his jaw. “In the 21XXs the sitting IGO President made great noise over the Open Ground conflict in Jiddal, but for the UN’s interests, also never conjured concrete action. All may take the devastation in the decades hence as proof.”

Around the table, there were nods and frustrated expressions abound, even quiet comments such as ‘that’s right’ or ‘I remember’. “The IGO could only offer meaningful change if it could someway engineer broad, peaceful consensus between nations on the major problems of the world, but it is precisely here which we see in every case, such consensus cannot be reached. It is on these problems that the biggest member nations of the IGO and UN both collide.”

“The IGO remains merely a forum for the Ingredient-centric –and therefore economic, in this Age of Gourmet –interests of each member’s rich, where conflicts are smoothed over but never resolved, indeed they are even perpetuated. As we see every December, it cannot bring a permanent end to world hunger; it refuses to, in fact.”

“The only force stronger than its’ military might, its’ weapons of mass destruction, is the international solidarity of the workers in Wul, Value, Jiddal, in Hankha-Nakh, in every country across the globe. It is to them and not to these rulers of the world that we must look to for a solution to the problem of world hunger.” Hamaru glanced at a man sitting a seat down from him, and Hermione realized he was being given time; he’d been going for over 20 minutes, now. “The IGO will never solve the food shortages, just as the UN will never put an end to war. So long as society is run for profit and not for human need, there will never be an end to these problems. It is foolish to appeal to a club of rulers to help end the problems they perpetuate by their very existence.”

“Only the people, the mass of ordinary people, may put an end to world hunger, war, and suffering, so because only the masses have peace and solidarity in their material interests. The people of Kerreland hath not benefitted from the poisoning of Dovalan –indeed, it will have only made the world more dangerous. The bosses of those mining and oil companies, meanwhile, have benefitted handsomely.”

“International organizations based on solidarity and human need are what we need to better our future. To all who would scorn this effort, I would say to them, ‘Truly, we may not meet this in our lifetime, but in the striving we be closer than you who would turn away.’”

Hamaru stopped, and a moment later the room broke into sedate clapping. As he sat down, the IGO employee who had been giving him time spoke up.

“Thank you for speaking on such an important topic, Hamaru-san. I suppose we’ll move on to discussion.”

The rest of the meeting carried on for an undetermined amount of time, maybe a little less than an hour, and consisted in the main of the others in the room expanding on points that Hamaru had made or asking him questions. Hermione did not interrupt; instead she chose to observe the whole while, and listened to the explanations Hamaru gave especially, and then the organizational to-do that followed. Besides the eerie mirroring of the composition of the Defense Army’s meeting structure, Hamaru gave great insight on the finer points of this place’s relations, not the least of which had to do with Jiddal and its resistance to outside ‘imperialist interest’.

Later, when the meeting had closed and the attendees gone back to their regular duties, Hamaru asked her to the side.

“I must beg you keep this to yourself, Granger.” He asked, solemn. The artificial light of the room seemed to wash him out, his scars starker than she was used to. “While he has no official word of it, Mansom has been tolerant.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione assured him.

“To be sure,” Hamaru nodded, then softened slightly. “I am shamed for not inquiring sooner –how do you fare? I recall it was... jarring.”

“Jarring’s one word,” Hermione leaned back against the table and pointedly ignored both the memory of the trip here and the touch of concern on Hamaru’s face. “I don’t belong here, Singh. I can’t say I’m enjoying this. But I understand you can’t do much about it.” Around her shoulders Rhssa hissed sympathetically –Hermione assumed –and with a slight smile Hamaru responded in kind, the echoey hiss of Parseltongue odd as it bounced off of tile floors and particle board. “I’ve been treated perfectly politely in any case. I only... I don’t do well with unstructured time.”

“What should you like to learn?”

Unexpectedly, Hermione met Hamaru’s eyes and found herself being studied closely. Despite living in the same house for some weeks, Hermione had only interacted with the Knight in unofficial capacity –his contributions were better suited to Neville or Draco, in any case. He had been genial and open in those interactions; now though, she could clearly see the same sharpness that often took over her own face, a quick tell of someone who was attempting to organize a few different factors towards a positive outcome.

“Would I have much to gain from the IGO?” Hermione asked –she had none of the abilities that Hamaru and Dudley claimed, and the disdain the Knight showed to this place had just been clearly laid out before her eyes.

Hamaru looked considering, less intense. “In spite of his... faults,” he sneered slightly. “Mansom does run a tight ship. I believe that you could gain something under his tutelage.”

VVV

“To be honest, the brat hates my guts.”

It had been another two weeks since Hermione had bullied her way into Mansom’s office and demanded he take her on as an intern, using the fact that he had slighted her so early on in their acquaintance as a battering ram for making him acquiesce to the arrangement. She didn’t know if Mansom had asked Hamaru or Dudley about the sudden interest or if he assumed she was going behind their backs, but either way he had hemmed and hawed before finally he shoved her at the computer next to his office refrigerator and put her to work.

On the days that Hamaru hosted his secretive gatherings, Hermione attended if it didn’t conflict with her new duties, unwilling to add even the slightest of extra eyes onto whatever the man was doing, organizing in such a precarious place. Otherwise, Hermione kept to either her quarters or Mansom’s office and did her diligence, and was rewarded with a plethora of tips from the very top of an international organization on how to manage her time, those of the Bureau Chiefs, how best to delegate work, and how to spin language in ways that could make even the shrewdest of bureaucrats’ heads spin. Most of it she already possessed something of an inkling of –she had been both a Prefect and a Teaching Assistant in sixth year, after all –but the fine tuning of those skills, the different angles to the methods she had gotten entrenched in over the years and months, well, it finally felt like she wasn’t just languishing here while her comrades in the U.K. kept going forward.

That said, once Mansom grew comfortable with her presence, he turned out to be a _talker_. Being around him some afternoons was like having two sets of Fred and George coupled with Lavender Brown at the desk across from hers, and it was testing both her patience and her concentration to have to listen to it. Most of it was flaky garbage –like the evening when he had waxed poetic about the ‘Alcohol Islands’ or some such nonsense for three straight hours –but then, there did come times when he had a drink after his phone calls and adopted a bit more of a sentimental, sombre bent.

Hermione glanced up from the tea she had been preparing, a little surprised that Mansom was going to bring up the animosity that existed between him and Hamaru before she had the chance to ask about it. There had been a long silence that precluded his statement, and if it was hesitance he had felt Mansom no longer appeared bothered by the topic, and went on nonchalantly. If she hadn’t been paying attention, Hermione might have let it go in one ear and out the other like his other late day ramblings.

“I was less than ten years into being President when he an’ his shadow firs’ popped in here. I was still used to people who had been around when Ichiryu was alive, not so much a couple’a kids.” Mansom waved his hand through the air as if dissipating a cloud of smoke. “Yet, I’d heard of _them._ They were all over the place, it was a little after the mining incident; pushing Match’s dogma of ‘revolution’, meddling in little ways. Never really thought too much about it, ‘cept when the UN pomps brought ‘em up. But they landed here a week before Christmas.” Mansom paused, remembering something she guessed. “The IGO’s big, you understand. We tax our member nations, an’ the more affluent one’s’d get pissy if we started taking care of the countries too poor to be members, nevermind the ones in bad straights who’re members already. So Ichiryu, then myself, we set up a little _scheme._ ”

“The Gourmet Coliseum makes a ton o’ profits off the rich gamblers of our ‘esteemed members’, and since it’s technically illegal there ain’t no say in where that profit goes, right?” Mansom looked at Hermione like they were sharing an inside joke, and so she nodded slightly, the picture of what he was painting slowly coming together in her mind. “So I take that money and put it in places the IGO can’t openly. In non-member countries we renovate buildings, plant trees, clean up oil spills. An’ our biggest endeavour is the Christmas drop-off.”

A hollow feeling cracked open in Hermione’s throat, almost as if a freezing charm had smacked her straight in the solar plexus and spread upwards. “Christmas drop-off?” She heard herself repeat, far off, and Mansom nodded.

“Kids were already here, might as well get some extra hands, yeah? Especially ‘cause not as many people volunteer for it these days.” He explained. “We sent them out together with a larger team, mighta been to Value or Eighleigh, nowhere actively at war. Still, he comes back and it’s as if he’s seen a ghost. Soon as the work’s over, he snaps.”

Mansom shrugged –Hermione noticed he still hadn’t said what the Christmas drop-off actually _was._

Suddenly the room felt oppressive –like all of the easy talk about filing systems and scheduling tactics over the last two weeks had taken on an acidic tint, curdled in her brain, like so much cream left out just a touch too long in the sun. Hermione hadn’t yet seen Hamaru truly angry –none of the Army had, yet –but from the brief glimpses of irritation, his indignation, offense, his righteous morals, she felt like she could draw up an accurate representation of it. To his younger self, everything would have been more harrowing without the years of experience he now claimed, and whatever ignited his fury would have been subjected to something overwhelming and raw.

“I’ve only ever done my best, done what I can. It ain’t much, but if it keeps kids from starving I’ll keep cheating my way into it.” And worse, whatever it was, Mansom didn’t sound like he was trying to justify it to her. He already believed it all. “But if the kid’s anything, he’s unbending. All I’m doing is ‘putting a bandaid on a festering wound’, he said. ‘Putting the responsibility on the victims.’ Pah, without it, half those kids’d be gone by morning.”

“Mansom,” Hermione wasn’t proud of how she kept her voice level and unaffected. She wanted to yell at him like she’d done in the hospital room, but Hamaru had already known all that Mansom was telling her –he had to have sent her Mansom’s way for a _reason._ “What _is_ the Christmas drop-off?”

Mansom blinked, caught a little off-guard. “I get volunteers to deliver food to hungry kids on Christmas Eve,” he said simply, and then barged on like he hadn’t had to explain. “The brat thinks it’s an affront to human decency. Like we could just do it out in the open and not have an uproar on our hands.”

 _That isn’t the issue here!_ Hermione yelled internally. On her arm, Rhssa squeezed slightly, seeming to sense her distress, and it made it a little easier to still the tremble in her hands as Mansom rambled on.

An hour later, the tea had long gone cold. Hermione had been unable to stomach the taste of it even after Mansom had moved on from Hamaru’s dislike of him and back onto more grounded topics, like the numerous proposals for changes to the tax rates that he was going to have her look over the next day. Once even that talk began to peter out, she rose from her chair stiffly and excused herself to go and rest –anything to be able to leave. But at the door Mansom got her attention once again.

“Granger, I think we line up fairly well,” he said. “Even with what you’re involved in, those two’re way past it. They’re pushing for something dangerous; it’s gotten a lot of people killed. Let me know if you need out, and be careful.”

She wanted to hex him; she wanted to slap Mansom across the face; she wanted him to explain how he rationalized the children who died once Christmas Eve had come and gone, or the ones his volunteers didn’t get to, she wanted him to tell her that he knew he was at best a stopgap, but at worst he was the _President_ of the _problem._

But she choked it down –instead she murmured a thanks and tucked her planner full of notes and advice under her arm, and then bade him a ‘goodnight, see you tomorrow’. Hermione closed the door quietly behind her and walked through the neat, grid-like halls of the main IGO building with a carefully maintained easy expression, and she greeted any employees who hailed her with the exact amount of civility and decorum she would have the day previous. She didn’t want to, but she stopped by the cafeteria briefly even so, and picked up a wrapped sandwich and a canned coffee so she wouldn’t get a headache later on, and then hurried back to her rooms.

She closed her door and sat at the desk, and ate her small meal with mechanical movements, mind only able to focus on the immediate task at hand. Hermione stared at the wall that separated her and the others’ rooms for a solid minute, trying to force the jitters out of her hands to little avail, before she grabbed her wand and hoisted Rhssa back up on her shoulders.

Dudley answered the door she pulled into existence within seconds of her hammering on it.

“ _What?_ What’s the big... are you _alright_?” Dudley hissed, somehow managing to sound concerned even now. He took a great stride backwards when she barged past him, not really of a mind to care if they were decent at the moment. Hamaru looked up from the corner of the room where he was sitting before a low table, and the expression of measured interest on his face made Hermione’s temper boil and spill over.

“Why did you send me to learn with him?!” She demanded. “I wasn’t under the impression he _understood_ , but he thought _I_ would agree with _him_! I wrote down his advice and considered his position and all this time he was trying to make me think his tactics were _right!_ ”

“You did hear of the drop off.” Hamaru guessed, and while his mild tone pissed her off, the new look on his face was more human, more relatable, than it had been in weeks –maybe in the entire time she had known him.

“He thought it was the _best_ he could _hope_ for!” Hermione clenched her fists so hard it felt as if the skin on her palms might split. “I can’t decide which is worse –that he thinks it’s normal and expected for there to be need of such a service and he’s going above and beyond it, or if he _actually_ thinks he can fix the master’s house with the master’s tools! I’ve seen some daft purebloods and politicians, but _delusion!_ And only once a _year_?”

Dudley grinned. “By Froese, you catch on quick. Takes ours half a year to recruit here, most times.”

“Foul, isn’t it?”Hamaru’s voice was still measured, but when he stood up it was like watching a snake uncoil –unwillingly, the Basilisk from her second year came to mind. Not the confined, tormented creature she encountered trapped in the Chamber, out of its mind from its instincts and the command of a ghost, but the ones she had read of in order to deduce what she, Ron and Neville were up against. The Basilisk in its prime, under the care of Salazar Slytherin; the great Wyvern of Bisterne, presiding over the area as a ruler all in exchange of milk; the Lambton Wyrm in the tales of Northumbria, who slept on a hill in Fatfield and ate whatever it saw fit.

“These people go to such lengths, so that they need not change a thing. Blind trust in a way which has only ever safeguarded the few on high.” Hamaru waved a hand and the candle on the little table behind him flickered out, leaving maybe half a dozen shallow bowls of water to reflect the fluorescent lighting above. “Did he speak only of the drop off? It is not the worst of it, I assure you. But I can’t imagine he mentioned the Fairy Tale tragedy, did he?”

“He didn’t.”

“In the third richest member nation of the IGO, there was an orphanage so underfunded and desperate for food –in this _Gourmet Age_ –that it resorted to purchasing poison Ingredients without the skill to safely prepare them. The caretakers and all twelve children died within days, and saw no medical treatment in that time.” Dudley had moved to sit on the closest bed, to both Hamaru and Hermione’s left. “Last year, the twentieth anniversary of it, another orphanage in the same country, St. Usan’s, lost eighteen children from the same desperate measures.” The room was quiet for a long minute. “Granger, you know well of why I am against the IGO and the UN, and now you have seen why Mansom is an enemy to me and mine. I shall be forthcoming with you. I sent you to him in the hopes of gaining an upper hand in his dealings; we had planned to broach the proposal to you after the next meeting.”

“Aye, you’re in a clear sorted position, now.” Dudley spoke. “We _did_ think you could learn from him, don’t go on as if we only wanted you for the info.”

Hermione stared at the pair and thought back on what Rafaela had claimed, what she had read but never managed to uncover, and asked them, “Why was there a Revolution in Jiddal?”

Hamaru looked surprised at her question, and it was Dudley who answered her. “Ever since its inception, Jiddal’s economy was inflated by foreign investors and propped up by the UN for mining rights. It was similar to many third-world countries back where we were all born; kept from developing properly so its resources could be exploited.” Dudley crossed his arms and looked every bit the imposing ‘bodyguard’ to Hamaru that many whispered about in the IGO ranks. “50 years ago, the King and nobility colluded with the UN to start a civil war so the burgeoning anti-imperialist demonstrations wouldn’t gain traction. Jiddal was ruined –left in the hands of the King and the Gourmet Underground, while the UN took over the mines to be ‘properly run’ for the ‘people’s interest’. The IGO didn’t care to send aid or food in for _years._ ”

“About... near twenty years back, now, IGO footing briefly changed.” Dudley went on. “Kazir’s lineage withdrew from Jiddal to join NEO, and the Gourmet Underground fell into Otchan’s control. The Mafia then helped fight off the Gourmet Corp and NEO at the Cooking Fest, and so they used that clout to get a few concessions while the IGO was off balance. Revivers to kick start the ecosystem, construction crews to help repair buildings, Hunters and Chefs to ease the food shortages. It was called the Restoration Effort. The first time we dropped into Jiddal was right around when the Assembly of People’s Officials got word that the IGO was pulling its funding unless Otchan –that’s Match, the Don of the Mafia and the Chairman of the Nerg City Council of Workers’ and Mafia Deputies –acquiesced to the return of the King’s lineage and relinquished the country’s governing to UN appointed candidates. The Assembly said ‘fuck that’, and so Otchan acted accordingly. The last stronghold was the UN-run mines, and once those were taken things rapidly came to a head.”

“And what’s really your goal, in the end?” Hermione pushed, more and more pieces coming together in her brain –she wasn’t called the smartest of her generation for a laugh. “Jiddal kicks out the UN, resists the IGO, for what? Independence?”

“For _freedom,_ ” Hamaru said, eyes blazing, and as he stood up again he came to her and clasped her hands in his, tight like a vice, so that they were face to face and it was like he spoke to her and her alone. “What is it we fight for? You know all too well; to end exploitation, injustice and fear. For there to be no homelessness, no hunger, no war, and for the working people, for people like _us,_ to be able to shake off our shackles and remake the world without rulers.” Hermione watched, transfixed, as the humble man she had shared quarters with over months suddenly became a blaze of righteous conviction, and to stand in his sights it felt more akin to being among a crowd of thousands than this small, barren room in the middle of the ocean. “We are proud to proclaim that our aim is to create a new and better society for all across the globe. No rich, no poor, but all to contribute and enjoy the fruits of their common labour! There are those who level the accusation at us that we mean to create a utopia, that this shall never come to pass –I say, they are _naive_! It is no utopia to point out that there is more than enough food for all, more than enough wealth for all to be able to live well, for all to have access to a home, to education, to employment! All of this is our goal, for all people.” Hamaru tightened his grip on her hands. “And for yours, too, Hermione. Not just to defeat your enemies, but to secure for you all a brighter future. What say you, to this?”

In the span of a few seconds, Hermione grappled with many things, not the least of which was her own upbringing. Her parents had not been very fond of Labour; they had bought into the Tory slogans and in the end had firmly believed in their promises even as austerity gripped the Isles and put more and more people on the street, out of work, in debt. She couldn’t explain why she had never seen eye to eye with them on this. Maybe it was her friends in Primary, who more often than not had nothing to eat or siblings to watch while their parents worked job after job to make ends meet. Or it might have been her uncle during the Teachers’ Strike, who had not wanted to go out on the lines but had done so anyway, because he knew that there was no other way to win, no other way to keep from getting steam rolled over and crushed under foot.

“What would you have me do?” She asked; she could unpack the full scope of Hamaru’s vision at a later time, could examine the intricacies and ask him about the specifics at her leisure, but right now was the time for action.

Hamaru didn’t look triumphant, but he grinned proudly –once more, Hermione was struck by how suddenly he was acting reachable, human –and delved into the bag he kept at his side, emerging after a moment with a dossier not unlike the ledger Neville kept on his person. He withdrew two papers from inside and handed them to her; Hermione skimmed what was basically shaping out to be a work contract, but for spying, and let out a long, low breath.

“This... is a lot,” she said, and then, “When can I start?”

Vvv

_“Otousan, when shall we return to Nerg?”_

_Takimaru looked up from the shirt he was folding; Harry had paused in his task while next to him Dudley carried on searching through his socks to find a match like he had no clue there was now a conversation at hand. His son’s pensive expression pulled on the scar tissue left by the Tearor Moran Bird, and was a stark reminder of what Takimaru might have lost because he had tried to delay in Harry’s training. He thought the question over as he finished rolling up the shirt, and then set it aside. They had been in Simple Diet Hill for three months now, the longest his son had ever remained here at one time –and it was obvious Harry was beginning to feel a little restless._

_“My answer shall involve aspects of Match-san’s work that you **mustn’t** repeat, yes?” he asked, and even absorbed in his pile of laundry Dudley still nodded dutifully along with Harry. “Match-san sent us, myself presently, back here because he needs a link to his allies he may trust. The Assembly is moving ever closer to seeing a complete overthrow of Imperialist presence.”_

_“They’re going to start the revolution,” Harry surmised, awe infusing his tone._

_“Yes. It has been years coming,” sometimes, Takimaru wondered why he had tied himself so thoroughly to Match and his cause, or why the prospect of going up against the world did not frighten him. Certainly when they first met in Ice Hell they had been terribly different; Match had been the vicehead of the Mafia and only looking to offer a balm to the troubles of his countrymen, and Takimaru had been a Knight freshly inked and on a quest to save his father. That they had gone from then to their current tidings, with Match ready to spurn the IGO and UN and Takimaru a father in his own right, it boggled the mind to think on it._

_The best reasoning for **why** that he could come up with was the simple recognition of his ingrained duty to help others; that over the years he saw his friend, then partner, struggling to survive and finally declaring to all who would hear him, ‘No more!’ That if he balked in the face of that conviction and retreated to his old steady life as a Knight he would never live down the shame of being no better than those who were actively Match’s enemies. He still thought hard about it, even now._

_“It will be dangerous, although less so than if the King or the UN were still actively in power. The prospects for the neighbouring countries following in Jiddal’s footsteps are low, and so they need all the help they can get outside the borders. The Knights are poised well to work with the IWT and facilitate that outreach and communication.”_

_“Ai-han is on board?” Dudley asked._

_“As are the majority of the Knights,” it had been a particularly proud moment of Takimaru’s to attend the annual Congress for the Jiddalan Assembly and be able to bring to the table the support of such a respected, if small, group as the Gourmet Knights. “I can only offer that I do not **know** when we shall return. I myself, as the coordinator of the outreach, may need to stay here for some time, or go elsewhere at a moment’s notice. You two, by Acacia’s blessing, will remain with me here until you gain stable footing, and when you are older you may help us if you wish. I am sorry I cannot say any more concretely.”_

_“I’m going to help,” Harry said, quietly fierce. Takimaru smiled as they went back to their laundry, all the while murmuring excitedly about Jiddal’s situation. Despite Harry’s –and Dudley’s, in some respects –maturity, he knew that they didn’t fully comprehend the gravity of what Match was attempting to accomplish. Takimaru vividly recalled from his childhood the fate which befell Kondolh, a small oil-rich nation far to the south of Simple Diet Hill._

_They too had tried to buck the UN’s hold, but without a clear sighted leadership to guide them they had made extreme errors at critical points in the struggle. The masses’ yearning for a better life could only take them so far on their own, and today the country was still under strict military rule, cloaked beneath a Prime Minister who had been imposed by the Kerreland government. As an orphan, he had only escaped conscription into a ‘group home’ because his Gourmet World disease had been deemed too much of a hazard to those around him._

_It was clear even so early that Harry’s heart was going to lead him invariably down Match’s long road; they were so similar in too many ways for it not to be the case. If Dudley would follow alongside him was anyone’s guess, but Takimaru did not bet lightly –and he could see the beginnings of a close relationship being forged before his eyes._

_He would prefer if they could remain children a while longer, to attend the school permanently and keep to the lowlands around the Lodgings; he wished they could spend the next half a dozen years in easy contentment. But what he wished for was not rational, and Takimaru had since come to make peace with this fact; seeing the deep scars on Harry’s body from a lack of preparation for such a place as the Gourmet Forest was a harsh wake up call._

_“Alright!” Takimaru clapped his hands together both to banish his dark thoughts as well as to break his two wards out of their little bubble. “Let us finish folding these with haste, and then go to beg Oumaru-san for a humble meal.”_

_“I’m finished!” Dudley proclaimed, a spark of interest in his eye at the mention of –well, Takimaru was beginning to think that it was at the mention of both food **and**_ _Chef. “Here, Harry, I’ll do your shirts.”_

_Hours later, Takimaru’s background worry came true. Harry and Dudley had barely stepped through the threshold of their rooms following dinner when they both gave sharp, pained cries and had flickered away. A big part of Takimaru wanted to shout –would his son **never** be able to rest? –but with the weariness of the last two years heavy on his shoulders, he merely sighed and mentally rearranged his schedule for the next few days. He turned out the lights to his wards’ room and scooped up the few mugs that had been left following late night tea and made his way down to the kitchens. While it made him nervous not to **do anything** about this, he knew better than anyone that there wouldn’t be anything to do until Harry resurfaced. It was frustrating and did not help the pressing of his heart, and he hoped only that he could bury himself in work to make the time pass faster._

_“Oh, Ai-san.”_

_His father turned to smile at him and shifted over slightly so Takimaru could join him at the sink; he blinked in surprise at the mountain of dirty dishes awaiting, which made Aimaru laugh._

_“I decided the young ones could have a day off of chores, before the Fast,” Takimaru made a sound of understanding –that was another thing he had meant to explain properly to Dudley –and without prompting he reached for the scrub brush to get to work. Aimaru easily moved over a bit more to take the rinsing and drying, and they quietly chugged along for a few minutes. “How is Dudley-kun settling in?”_

_“Easier with Ha-kun’s enthusiasm,” probably also the crash course in Nerg City set him on a good base. “He’s begun to ask if he can help Oumaru-san in the kitchens –we may have a budding Chef on our hands.”_

_“Acacia forbid, a Chef in this age?” Aimaru laughed again. “And I have heard that he is fairly talented with his Gourmet Cells –should we give Brunch a call once more?”_

_“Maybe so,” that Dudley had never exhibited the signs of possessing Gourmet Cells before his... explosive interaction with the onion was a small worry on Takimaru’s mind. Not enough for hasty action, but still. “Ha-kun is helping in that respect as well. They have come a long way from the days when he and Ha-kun were at odds.” He looked down at the suds on his hands and handed his father the serving platter carefully. “They phased away again, just now.”_

_“ **Taki** ,” Aimaru dropped the platter into the water and dragged him into a hug, uncaring of the suds and wet hands he was throwing about. “I’m so sorry. I know you were hopeful this time.”_

_“No sorry’s to be had, Ai-san,” Takimaru wasn’t proud of how his voice remained steady. “It is the way of things right now. I am confident Ha-kun will return, eventually.” Regardless, he let his father make little rocking motions and closed his eyes. Sometimes he hated to remember, but the comfort of an embrace like this one was so reminiscent of his childhood and the nights he awoke anxious and shaking that he felt soothed instantly. “Might ye –sit with me, though? A cup of tea, mayhap?”_

_“Of course.”_

_They finished the rest of the dishes in silence, and had that tea out in the dimly lit courtyard of the Lodgings –their sombre air must have been apparent, for none of the Knights who were awake and active so late did more than raise a hand in greeting before moving on. Takimaru went to bed much later than he normally would, yet still awoke at his usual time (some habits were hard to throw off, no matter how much he wished to stay unawares for a little longer) and went for breakfast alone. Oumaru noticed Harry and Dudley’s absence and refrained from commenting, but made him up all of his favourites for breakfast, and so by mid-morning Takimaru was feeling just a smidge better._

_“Taki-san, there’s a call for you on line 2,” Yutumaru knocked gently on the office door where Takimaru had holed himself up to work through some of the latest Assembly bulletins. “From a Chef Komatsu in Gourmet Town.”_

_“Thank you, Yutu-san, I’ll grab it now,” he hoped that Komatsu was calling to let him know about his union’s response to Match’s invitation. Komatsu was so earnest when Takimaru had approached him about the subject; he was so much more informed about the situation in Jiddal than they had expected, and it was certainly a relief to know that someone with as much clout and **connections** as Komatsu sympathized with them. _

_“Hello, Komatsu-kun?”_

_“Ah, Taki-kun! I’m so glad I got through to you!” the Chef answered brightly, and even halfway round the world Komatsu was doing more to lift his spirits than any amount of distraction he could cook up himself. “I meant to try and call earlier but there was work to sort out and meals to prepare and Toriko-san kept **calling** while I was busy, and then I couldn’t remember how to calculate the time difference! So sorry!”_

_“Ha, Komatsu-kun, you are too sincere for this early in the morn’,” Takimaru grinned and absently fiddled with the notepad next to the phone. “Forgiven, then, for whatever slight it is.”_

_“ **Taki-kun** ,” Komatsu bemoaned, and there was some background noise that he pulled the receiver away to address for a moment. “Ah, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. You mentioned awhile ago that your son’s Gourmet Cells manifested strangely? Teleportation?”_

_“Uh –yes. Rightly, I did.” Takimaru was mystified. Komatsu had never been one for theoretical talk about Gourmet Cells unless it had to do with how his cooking could benefit them, and Toriko was no different._

_“Great! Because I think they’ve changed a bit more, what with the pair asleep on my couch right now! They were **very** confused to still be in the Human World, as I understand it.” Komatsu chattered on and Takimaru straightened._

_“Harry and Dudley are with **you**? In Gourmet Town?”_

_“Yes, they actually crashed into Toriko-san when he was on his way here, and –Toriko-san!”_

_“Sorry, Komatsu,” Toriko didn’t sound very sorry, and he was either crowding his Chef to speak into the phone or had stolen the receiver altogether. “Hey Takimaru, good to hear you. Your kid smells weird.”_

_“I do suppose all children will, Toriko-san,” Takimaru replied, amused. His mind felt lighter already –his children were safe and either hadn’t gone back to ‘Privet Drive’ at all or it had been such a short trip as to be practically nonexistent._

_“I **mean** he doesn’t smell like the Gourmet World, smartass. You said that was where he was from.”_

_“Well we had thought so, up to now. He’s certainly not from the Human World that we can tell.” Takimaru made a note on the paper next to him about this. “Presently, my opinion on the matter is such; nil. That he is safe and sleeping is of greater import.” Toriko huffed on the other end of the line, but grumbled something along the lines of ‘well if **you** don’t care then that’s that I guess’._

_They spoke a few minutes more before the Heavenly King passed him back to Komatsu, and the rest of the conversation was spent coordinating when Komatsu and Toriko would escort the children back to Simple Diet Hill. Komatsu insisted –not only did he wish to talk with Takimaru in person about the IWT invitation, but he and Toriko were going on an expedition in Wul once more and the Lodgings would be on their way in any case._

_(He was grateful either way. The backlash from Match’s crusade against the Populans and their leader, Odai, was only now dying down. It had remained nearly universally outside of Jiddal’s borders and only among media outlets; the average person had no clue that the Populans had been two hundred people at most, and had out of nowhere declared Odai President nine months ago. Nor that they spent the intervening time courting a well know terrorist group in Donolan. Investigating told him the UN was attempting to prop up Odai as a legitimate candidate for election who had been ‘widely supported’ –utter rubbish to anyone who actually had to live in Nerg. Never mind the fact they’d already **held** elections, twice on UN demand, and there had been no major shift in the votes cast that could warrant their continued calls for their own candidates to receive precedent._

_Still, the situation had been... tense. It wasn’t yet deemed safe for Takimaru to travel. He hadn’t exactly become particularly well known outside of Jiddal since aligning with the Assembly’s efforts, but there had been attempts lately to slow the passage of those related to the IWT; with how things were progressing they couldn’t dare afford legal trouble.)_

_By the time Takimaru hung up the phone it was the afternoon, and while his mind ruminated on the apparent change in Harry’s Gourmet Cells’ behaviour he headed for Aimaru’s office to let him know about their impending guests. Acacia could only ever say if Aimaru’s competitive streak with his old friend would make itself known, and this close to the Fast it was better to tackle it early._

_A chuckle escaped him –Harry and Dudley had each expressed interest in Hunting and Cooking respectively, and if there was ever a pair to show them the ropes, it would be Komatsu and Toriko, he was sure of it._

Vvv

It was two and a half weeks hence that emotional confrontation that they jumped away from the IGO Headquarters and back to the United Kingdom, and as usual it was unexpected and at a mostly inopportune time. Dudley had commandeered a smaller kitchen lab and was running experiments on high Food Honour level Ingredients for one of the sympathetic Gourmologists when he froze, ladle poised over the pot his assistant was tilting, and vanished. Hermione was walking the halls towards the cafeteria, discussing a proposed shift change with Bureau Chief Kazal when she stopped short, doubled over with a gasp of pain and then a second later was gone, Rhssa asleep in the messenger bag she had taken to keeping at her side.

Hamaru had been conversing with one of the dock workers and the island branch’s Secretary, facilitating a smooth introduction between the two before he arranged passage to the mainland, when his Cells seized his attention; he apologized for cutting the meeting short, handed both women a card with his updated contact information on it, and then flickered out of the coffee house.

The three of them landed in pitch darkness within feet of each other, and within an instant something burned at Hamaru’s knee and he scrambled to his feet, the same as Dudley and Hermione next to him. They made sounds of pain as they did so, and there was a great clatter of metal from all around them as they staggered toward each other in what they could only tentatively tell was the middle most part of the cavern, in a clear portion of the floor. They clutched at each other’s arms and shoulders to make sure nothing else was awry, and then Hermione hesitantly lifted her wand and lit the end with a spell that threw the cavern into sharp relief.

All around them, floor to ceiling, were glittering riches the likes of which Hamaru had never seen outside of books or movies. There were golden coins, goblets, all manner of swords and polished armour, crates upon which held glass boxes full of strange Fauna, shelves affixed to the walls creaking with flasks and jars, even a skull hung ominously above where the clear path through the treasure led to a sealed door. Next to where Hamaru assumed he had landed, there was a small pile of some twenty silver brooches, all identical and giving off waves of heat; there were two similar piles of identical objects next to the impressions in the dust of Hermione and Dudley’s landing places.

“Where have we found ourselves?” Hamaru asked, hushed even alone in this –vault, it had to be some sort of vault or treasure hold. Something in the air put him on edge even beyond the exhaustion brought on by a jump between the Human World and what he presumed was England or thereabouts, judging by the look of some pieces of armour.

“This –this’s a Gringott’s Vault,” Hermione said, sounding rattled. She was staring at the skull above the vault door, and now that he looked closer Hamaru could see an inscription carved around it, in another language even stranger than that of the Nitro. “How did we –they’re supposed to be impenetrable.”

“Well, Hama’s Gourmet Cells’ve never cared much for boundaries, hate to say.” Dudley piped up. He was staring at the piles of superheated metal with a calculating look in his eye, and with a deft hand he plucked a spare spoon from inside of his Chef jacket (to Hermione’s mutter of, “Of course you would have that...”) and reached down to tap it on a relatively small coin about a foot back from the clearing.

He jerked back when the coin burst into about twenty replicas and the heat they gave off even affected the spoon where he held it pinched between two fingers –Dudley dropped the spoon on top of the treasure in his surprise, but as opposed to what just occurred, there wasn’t any reaction from the treasure below the spoon. “Looks like it affects things connected to a person,” Dudley said as he flicked his hand dismissively. His Cells’ abilities looked like they would be of great help in regards to the affects of the heat, as there wasn’t so much as a red mark left on his hand. “Any ideas Granger? This looks like your lot’s work.”

“’My lot’,” Hermione huffed, but had a wryly amused expression on her face as she catalogued the cavern. “Thought you were an internationalist, Dursley. Should have known you’d let your true colours show someday.” Dudley snorted in reply, and it warmed Hamaru despite his unease, that his cousin should be able to rib with another so easily. “If this _is_ a Gringott’s vault, don’t touch anything. It’s likely they’re all spelled to react like that, as a counter measure for thieves. We had best examine the door –I don’t think any average spells will be able to penetrate it, but we have to start somewhere.”

“Ah, Hermione,” Hamaru stopped her and gestured to her bag, where Rhssa had awoken and poked her head out of the folds in curiosity. Hermione tutted worriedly and passed the slug-snake over to him as they were a lot more used to being in dangerous situations together. “ **My love, you must hold to me fast. There is great danger.** ”

Once Rhssa agreed and had hunkered down to a satisfaction around Hamaru’s neck, Hermione moved over to the door so to inspect it, Dudley at her heels, but Hamaru stayed where he was. His Cells adjusted his eyes enough that he could still see even as the light of her wand moved away, and without their presence to distract him he could feel that odd sensation even clearer. It was like when a sound system was so loud that it made the bass vibrate your very bones, except there was no noise and it wasn’t his bones, it was his Cells. He took a step further into the vault, careful not to nudge anything, while Hermione murmured around the door and he knew his cousin’s eyes watched his back but did nothing to pull him over to them just yet.

Finally, a further fifteen feet into the vault, Hamaru _saw_ it. With his Cells drained from the jump away from the Human World, it felt different, but just the same as in the drawing room weeks ago his Cells still gave a shudder and a hiss. He wasn’t sure, now that he was coherent enough to examine the reaction, whether it arose out of pleasure or disgust, and it wasn’t as if he could call up his Demon to discuss their differing Appetites even if he wanted to. But the golden cup with a crest on the side so similar to that locket from Grimmauld was blazing like a beacon to his instincts, and he knew without any reason why that he had to get it down from where it resided.

“Dudley, Hermione!” he called, and stepped back to them, acutely aware of the cup still behind him. His companions returned to his side just as swiftly as they had left. “My Cells presently push me to retrieve something from atop that shelf, yon’. It is similar in feeling to the locket.”

Hermione drew in a sharp breath and cast her wand up to shine where Hamaru had indicated. “Merlin,” she breathed when she caught sight of the locket. “That’s the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff.”

“What’s that mean?” Dudley asked.

“It means Neville was _right_! And you-” Hermione turned to him, and Hamaru was surprised at the wonder in her expression. “Hamaru, you can destroy them.”

“My Appetite Demon, to be precise,” he hedged, but it was almost as if the woman did not hear him.

“What are you thinking?” She asked, eyes stuck on the cup, determination written in her stance. “Based on the door, there aren’t many avenues out of here. The Cup would only be the first obstacle.”

Hamaru had not thought so far ahead just yet, for it was always Dudley whose mind whirred at top speeds to orient them when they landed in unfamiliar territory. He looked to his cousin and was heartened when Dudley nodded once, decisive in whatever he had cooked up. “Hama’s Cells bypassed whatever... _enchantments_... this vault has up. Try the spoon test but push your Cells into it, see if that affects anythin’. Beyond that, I’d bet money he could get through the door or the wall, no problem. We can go from there.”

Hermione nodded, but cast an assessing glance at Dudley’s hands, maybe recalling how he had very blatantly dealt with Alastor Moody in Grimmauld Place. “Breaking out like that would probably also alert the Bank itself. They likely won’t listen to reason.”

Dudley scoffed. “If I can nearly beat Mansom into the ground, don’t worry about some overzealous accountants.” Hermione bit her lip and shook her head, but didn’t rebuke him.

Hamaru knelt down in the narrow path clear of treasure and searched his bag. He usually kept a few bits and bobs on him for such occasions where he needed to use his Cells on a smaller scale, and this seemed an opportune time. He shaped the little rock and twig together and stretched it out, made sure that it was sturdy enough to hold itself upright, until it looked akin to the metal arm that clothes retailers used to pick hangers up off of great heights. With trepidation, he held his Cells steady and tapped the end onto a small bronze coin just to the left of the path –and while he could feel an echo of something attempting to change, his Cells adapted to it and in the end there was no reaction. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I would ask you both to be ready to defend against a possible onslaught of scalding metal.” Hamaru said, and raised the long arm he had made. “I shall attempt to pick it up –then I shall hand it off to one of you and try to bypass the door. Let us make haste.”

Swiftly, as they had in the aftermath of their appearance in the Ministry of Magic, all three of them moved into a position that would allow for the greatest movement and most visibility. Hermione next to the door, already casting spells that would protect against heat and blunt force, while Dudley stood halfway between them, posed ready to grab and run, and Hamaru was the furthest from the door so he could hook his makeshift tool on the handle of the cup. It took a try or two, during which time the tension in the vault rose sharply even as the temperature eased, but finally he had it. His hand jerked unconsciously at the first contact –despite his Cells’ exhaustion, he could now acutely feel them perk up in interest. Whatever these strange artefacts the Defence Army were interested in destroying actually _were,_ it wouldn’t be good for them if he manifested his Demon here, especially not while so drained. So Hamaru took a brief second to centre himself, mentally running through his Pre-Shot Routine, and within moments his Cells mulishly settled back down.

_‘Thank you.’_

Hamaru lifted the cup gingerly, and at the same time he turned he made the stick shorter and thicker, and hooked the end around both arms of the cup more securely. With the little piles they had left from their impromptu entrance and testing it was more difficult to find his way back without hitting anything on accident, but he hadn’t been trained at the Gourmet Temple for nothing. His careful steps brought him back to his cousin, and he passed the cup over with great care, glad when the tenuous connection to his Cells broke and he no longer felt that slight, grating edge on his senses.

Of course, as soon as the connection snapped so too did his Cells’ influence over the enchantments, and the cup immediately began to release scalding heat and replicate, faster and in far greater amounts with Dudley keeping a firm grip on the tool that held the cup secure. Hamaru did not allow himself to think –beyond that he hoped Dudley would safeguard his hands at least from the heat –before he was sprinting toward the door with his cousin hot on his heels. The loss of care led to more bits of treasure getting set off every few footfalls, but as he swiped his hands across his scars and made to grab at the metal door Hamaru couldn’t care less.

The tethered _dragon_ which awaited them on the other side of the door was another matter, and it was with a particularly draining use of his Cells that Hamaru closed the vault door behind them so the quickly multiplying treasure couldn’t escape, while at the same time he flung up a shield of rock to block the gush of flame the great creature aimed their way. Blessedly the enchantment on the cup seemed to fizzle out now that they had escaped the vault, leaving them in a very literal case of ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire’.

“Is that a fucking _dragon_!?” Dudley demanded, stuffing the cup and stick as one into his bag to free his hands. “What the blue bloody blazes is a _dragon_ doin’ in a _bank_!”

Hamaru was sweating now, keeping the rock around them from disintegrating under a second onslaught of fire, but listened when Hermione said, “I thought they were just rumours! I didn’t actually think the Goblins used dragons as guards!”

“I fuckin’ _hate_ magic!” Dudley cried, and slapped a hand on Hamaru’s back to give his Cells a brief shock, just enough that his breathing evened out a bit. Hamaru nodded in thanks, grateful beyond measure when the dragon did not attack a third time; in the dark, silent tunnels of the bank it was easy to hear the distressed chirps and growls the creature managed for a minute over the sound of their breathing and pounding hearts. “Now what the hell do we do?”

Hamaru manipulated a small peephole into the stone wall he’d created, just wide enough to see that the dragon was chained to the floor only enough to allow it to stand on its front legs. Its wings were kept close to its body due to the relatively low ceiling, and there were deep slashes across its neck and torso –as Hamaru watched, it seemed like it wanted to pace, likely left distressed and on edge by their sudden arrival from within the vault. The scales along its cheeks bristled as it shook its head, then it clawed the ground like an agitated animal trying to mark its territory without drawing attention to itself.

“By my faith,” Hamaru said, which prompted an alarmed look from the two alongside him. “I warrant it will be many a day before an idea so bold passes my lips again.”

“That means it’s going to sound crazy, doesn’t it?” Hermione asked Dudley plainly, who did not answer so much as make a vague groan and cover his eyes with his hands.

“I’m runnin’ away to Hex Food World as soon as we get back home.”

Hamaru left his cousin to his dramatics and motioned for Hermione to look at the dragon through the wall, and while she catalogued its appearance he explained his rough idea for their escape. Even as the blood drained from her face she nodded, and in the background Dudley grumbled about being surrounded by crazy fools but hunkered in front of the eyehole as well.

The plan was relatively simple, but Hamaru admitted to himself he may be slightly biased when it came to great scaled beasts which easily towered over him, if only because of the kindness the Jiddalan snakes had always treated him with.

“ **Hey, over here!** ” Hamaru hissed, which caught the creature’s attention easily. In its blind spot, Hermione and Dudley hustled along the walls and were ready to smash the chains from where they were clamped around its limbs. “ **Might you understand me!? I mean no harm!** ”

The dragon strained against its chains and made a growling, clicking hiss that Hamaru could catch familiar sounds out of, but nothing he could comprehend, and then it shot another blaze of fire in his direction. He dove out of the way, infinitely glad for his physical training when his Cells weren’t available, and that’s when Hermione cast a spell and destroyed the shackles holding the poor beast to the ground.

Crouched as it was, Hermione and Dudley were able to scramble onto its back before it noticed it was un-tethered, and when Hamaru made a silent step to the side the dragon did not follow with its eyes –partially blind from the light and abuse, he had to guess. Without a thought he managed to sprint and grasp Dudley’s arm in time for the creature to bristle and realize, belatedly, that it wasn’t fastened to the ground anymore. Hamaru took the rope Hermione threw his way and only just manage to swing it around the dragon’s neck while he boosted himself up when its wings spread out and filled the chamber and it gave an ear splitting roar before taking off on all fours towards the tunnel opening to their right.

Hamaru clung to the rope and his cousin fiercely as the musty air and dust and heat whipped by their faces, and Hermione in front of them kept low, one hand on the rope while the other waved her wand as fast as she was able, casting one particular spell more often among a few others which helped to widen the tunnel enough that the dragon was actually able to get through and closer to the surface. Hamaru and Dudley could do nothing but hold on for the ride, with one too exhausted to use much of his Cells any longer and the other without so much as a single ranged ability. Although when broken stalactites and the lanterns on the walls were ripped away and came towards them, Dudley managed to kick start Hamaru just enough that he was able to turn them to sand or water before they had a chance to hit them. The dragon broke into a convergence of two tunnels and Hamaru thought he saw some sort of cart with people inside it go flying by, but then the dragon breathed fire once more and there was a blinding light in front of them that had nothing to do with the heat.

They burst into the middle of a vast marble hallway and sent people scattering every which way, and a cacophony of screams and shouts started up, with the ‘Goblins’ Hermione had spoken of raising weapons and herding customers out of the dragon’s path. With Hamaru, Hermione and Dudley still stuck to its back it stretched its wings once more and took off towards the enormous doors on the far end of the hall –they only had seconds to brace for impact before the doors were flung off of their hinges from the sheer force of the creature and it was in the sky and flying away from the scene faster than anyone could catch them.

Vvv

They emerged soaked and freezing from the lake they had been forced to jump into once it became clear that the dragon would land on the banks of the deserted mountain valley. Hours had passed since their escape from the bank, but when they collapsed on the rocks and sand and Hermione began laughing joyfully and a little hysterically, Hamaru couldn’t bring himself to care about the cold or the burns or his exhaustion.

“We –we broke into Gringott’s! We got another HORCRUX!!” She shouted almost as if she couldn’t believe it, and when her amazed eyes found Hamaru and Dudley sitting up, panting a few feet away from her they didn’t have long to brace themselves to catch her. Hermione hooked her arms around their necks and crushed them all together in one of the most uncomfortably wonderful group hugs Hamaru had yet to experience and laughed again, so hard that her shoulders shook with the strain of it. “You absolute _bastards_! We did it, we’ve got another! We broke OUT OF GRINGOTT’S!”

“Ha! By _Froese_ , haha, what the HELL!” Dudley began laughing as well, in disbelief or in sheer relief, it was hard to tell. When he caught Hamaru’s eye from around Hermione’s still shaking shoulders Hamaru couldn’t help himself and so too dissolved into laughter, and all three of them wound their arms around one another and held on as if they would be flung apart should they move even an inch away.

Eventually Hermione extracted herself, still looking exhilarated, and cast a round of protective spells around them just in case. Hamaru pushed himself up and glanced over to where the dragon was drinking from the lake and felt a pang of empathy for the beast. His home and his profession may be based upon hunting Ingredients, but cruelty like what he saw down in the bank was something he could never abide by. If one was going to eat, then one should kill the Fauna and feel gratitude towards it for its nourishment; if one needed to fight, then there should be no cruelty shown. For the dragon to be kept away from its natural habitat, abused and used as a tool, it reminded him too much of how the Gourmet Corp and NEO treated those around them.

Hamaru knelt down a little ways away from Dudley and Hermione, uncaring of the cold ground against his aching legs. “We have partaken of your open hand,” he said, and with cupped hands he bowed in the dragon’s direction. “From today I wish you health, from this day I wish you satiation. May you attain happiness and be free from suffering,” when he touched his lips to his palms and his knuckles then to the ground, he noticed all sound behind him had ceased, but Hamaru felt no self consciousness in his practice. He was an adherent of Gratitude, a practitioner of Appreciation, and he was not one to put such things aside. “May you feel full with gratitude and a splendid meal, and may you never go hungry for either. To you, I humbly give thanks.”

As he stood up he wobbled dangerously, the entire day beginning to catch up to him, but a firm hand caught his elbow and steadied him –Hermione slung his arm around her shoulders and took half his weight, her eyes suspiciously glassy.

“Let’s go back to everyone,” she said, and Hamaru couldn’t have agreed more.

The Defence Army had contingencies for its members becoming stranded in odd places –Hermione was the better off of the three of them for the most part, and with a turn of her step she was able to Apparate them all to a nearby hidden point by Grimmauld. Without much choice she cast a notice-me-not on their unsteady, scorched and exhausted group and Hamaru hoped that it would be enough, and they began to move. It was several blocks away from the base that Dudley murmured that they were being followed, and so they took a detour rather than lead a potential Death Eater to Grimmauld and waited in an alley for whoever it was to pass them.

They didn’t expect for a series of knocks to sound from the entrance to the alley, the same ones Hermione had taught them to get in and out of Grimmauld’s back gate. Hesitantly, Dudley responded by rapping at the dumpster next to them to make the corresponding pattern, and an unfamiliar face poked around the corner of the alley entrance with both hands raised peaceably.

“Mind identifying yourselves? Not many are supposed to know that Apparition point,” the girl said vaguely. “Wouldn’t want to tip the scales too far, you understand.”

At the last sentence Hermione slumped in relief, some sort of code to ensure there were fewer infiltrations to be had, Hamaru guessed. “Granger, Singh, and Dursley. It’s good that you’re on guard.” The girl relaxed as well, and stepped into view; she was dressed plainly and there were no obvious tells to her being anything other than a random passerby. “We’ve been... on a mission. How do we fare?”

“Better now that you’re back, but no casualties.” She answered, and with a quick check of the street she beckoned them to follow her. “I’m Shuri, with Triple S. We’re now affiliated.”

“Good, that’s –appreciated,” Hamaru was only half listening to the conversation at hand, more concerned with keeping himself conscious and not letting the itch emanating from the cup in Dudley’s bag distract him too much. The last few blocks in Shuri’s company were swift, but upon entering the back laneway she muttered a goodbye and then broke away and didn’t glance in their direction again. They made it to the back gate and perhaps rapped out the code a little more forcefully than otherwise, but it had been a long day for Hamaru and Dudley and an even longer six weeks for Hermione, so he thought they could be forgiven their enthusiasm. The gate unlocked and they hustled inside, and the wards that Hamaru had always been a little sceptical of actually washed over them with enough force that he physically felt it, a comforting warmth that set them all to shivering as the adrenaline finally ebbed.

Draco was the one to answer the second set of knocks. When he caught sight of them his entire face went white with shock and he shouted into the house before he barrelled toward them; he pushed Hamaru out of the way to lift Hermione clear off the ground with the force of his embrace. Dudley made sure to keep Hamaru upright, ready to glare at Draco for his carelessness; but when the man released Hermione he spun around and pulled Hamaru and Dudley to him for a brief, crushing hug as well. In the background the door to the house clattered open and Neville, Sirius and Tonks stumbled out to hurry over, and there were exclamations of relief and worry from all sides, and confusion mainly reigned until Hamaru found the strength to meet Neville’s gaze.

“We came straight hence from Gringott’s, my good friend. Forgive us our lateness,” For a moment Neville looked upon the scene severely, as though he would cast them out on the street for their absence, and then he sighed in a manner that to Hamaru’s ears rang more akin to a laugh.

“It is good to have you back,” Neville clapped them both on the shoulder and looked to Sirius. “Would you escort them up to Ron? Hamaru looks near to passing out.” And then he left them to greet Hermione with an embrace only slightly more subdued than Draco’s had been, and Hamaru was so overcome with his gratitude for their safe return that when he came back to himself they were already entering the Infirmary.

Hamaru remained conscious through Ron’s frantic examination, but only just. Once Hermione appeared in the Infirmary with Neville and Fred in tow and all of their outward injuries were healed to the best of Ron’s ability Hamaru beckoned Sirius over to him and gratefully stayed lying down, using his godfather’s leg as a head rest so that Rhssa could curl up close on his chest. Sirius seemed bewildered by the show of affection but indulged him, and while Hamaru closed his eyes to rest he also kept his attention on the conversation picking up around him, trusting Dudley to explain what he was too exhausted to think of.

“It was his Appetite Demon,” Dudley replied when bade to tell of what the creature was that Hamaru had manifested to eat the locket. There was caution in his tone even still, among proven comrades –for there were concepts that did not translate well from the Human World to this one, and Hamaru knew he wasn’t keen to set anyone off. “No one really _knows_ what they are, or where they come from. Some say they’re dead spirits who latch onto people with a strong appetite, others that if a Gourmet Cell user’s appetite is voracious enough, it’ll gain sentience.”

“That... it _ate_ a Horcrux,” Fred said, audibly shaken. “The only thing that’s destroyed a Horcrux before now was literally the strongest venom known to wizardry. And his –his Demon thing _ate it!_ ”

“Must’ve liked it, too,” Dudley said with a touch of humour. “They’re nearly always picky bastards, and Hama’s always had a hard time findin’ compatible Ingredients.”

“Did you just –you know what a Horcrux is? It’s a piece of You-Know-Who’s _soul_.” Ron sounded half disgusted, half fascinated. “You did _not_ just liken it to a –a potato, or an onion. It’s one of the darkest magics in history we’re talking about.”

“Well _we_ ain’t had no clue what it was. But anythin’ can be an Ingredient,” Hamaru almost chuckled at his cousin’s flippancy but refrained at the last second, remembering the times that he and Dudley had been stranded, not many options to be had. “Regardless, I don’t think a sentient embodiment of appetite really cares whether it’s a piece of soul or a piece of pie if it wants to eat it.”

“We would like to know where it came from,” Neville said, which made Hamaru open his eyes to look up at the other man where he was leaned on the bed near Hamaru’s feet. “If it is a spirit, shouldn’t you want it _out_? And if it is your... sentient appetite, what is its purpose?”

“It’s in my Cells,” Hamaru said, and everyone around him besides Dudley and Neville jumped in surprise, likely unaware he’d been awake.

“Feelin’ alright?” Dudley asked, and Hamaru _would_ sit up, but with Rhssa snoozing he decided to just stay put. “Scared me for a second there, you prick.”

“Sorry, Dud, but I believe I shall be fine,” Hamaru turned back to Neville. “Over time I have gleaned that while my Appetite Demon once was a spirit, my appetite energy did overtake it some years ago and hence it has become somewhat less than,” Dudley made an annoyed noise, which Hamaru knew he was going to have to answer to at some point. “Did I hear talk that the items you are after are... pieces of a soul?”

“Yes, _his_ soul, in fact,” Hermione said. All that time in the IGO and they had never spoken of it beyond Hermione ascertaining that the locket had indeed been completely eradicated. “What happened to it?”

“May I ask as to why a piece of _soul_ was out on the drawing room table?” Hamaru countered.

“We were trying to find another way to destroy it.” Fred supplied. “Over the years he’s split his soul up into a bastardized form of immortality. Until the Horcruxes are gone we can’t even hope to kill him.”

“What _did_ happen to it?” Sirius prompted, and Hamaru sighed.

“As when we all eat an Ingredient, it is simultaneously absorbed and destroyed.” Hamaru briefly considered lying, but they already knew this much. “It was converted into appetite energy, and that energy is now a part of the Demon and myself. Make of such what you will.”

Silence reigned for a little while, and then Fred raised his hand like he was in a classroom. “You said it’s sentient.”

“Verily,” Hamaru agreed.

“Then what does it _want?_ ”

An interesting query, which gave Hamaru pause. “I am shamed to say, I’ve not thought of it. We do not _converse_ , I’ll have you know. It sleeps for many a day, content to do so from that which I’ve gathered.” Hamaru frowned in thought. “Now that you have put it in my mind, I might sayst that it wants to eat good food. We do not converse, to be sure, but each instance it awakens, and eats, I do catch a glimpse of its thoughts. Is it pleased by its meal, whether it still hungers, things of the sort. I... when it ate the soul fragment, I recall now –it felt _full._ ”

Though he knew many of the Defence Army did not understand, the statement implied something grander than the sum of its words. In his discussions with Toriko and Coco, he had been informed that to satisfy one’s Appetite Demon was no easy task, and to accomplish it was a good omen. At the very least it meant that one’s Demon was more likely to help than hinder.

“We’ll have to discuss this at the next meeting,” Neville said. “Hamaru, if you are willing, I believe this could help our efforts greatly. It’s certainly easier than finding a Basilisk or controlling Fiendfyre.”

Vvv

During the meeting two days later, the lecture that was scheduled was put on hold to make room for a full detailing of Hermione’s stay with Hamaru and Dudley in the Human World. As had previously been agreed upon, much of the finer information about the International Workers’ Tendency through which Hamaru and Dudley did their work would remain vague or simply unspoken unless they acquiesced to answer questions during the discussion, but everything else was fair game. Luckily much of the six weeks at the IGO could be skipped over due to the repetitiveness, and the main points of the talk were the destruction of the locket and the retrieval of the cup from what turned out to be the vault of one Bellatrix Lestrange, a high ranking member of this Dark Lord’s circle.

The discussion opened with hesitant expressions of disbelief of Hamaru’s ability until a newer someone broke decorum and suddenly everyone was speaking at once, wild theories thrown about willy-nilly; some obviously for a joke as Hamaru caught George’s wink when the older man piped up with a theory about Hamaru being an alien. While it was humorous for the moment, Hamaru glanced Neville’s way and could _see_ the vein in his temple pulse as his ire grew.

Neville’s scowl deepened as the talking kept on, and he tapped the ledger with his pen; about half the assembled members persisted, however, and so he finally spoke up in a gravelly, disapproving voice that easily cut through the chatter.

“Discussion will continue, _if_ you would all remember yourselves,” under his withering glare the rest of the group quieted swiftly. “Let me be perfectly clear –I have every faith in the truth of Hermione, Singh, and Dursley’s account, and if there is concrete evidence for _your_ doubt then I encourage you to speak it. The Horcruxes will be destroyed with Singh’s help, but there is no guarantee that this will lead to _his_ defeat. And I am aware many of you are new to the structure of these meetings, but please respect that we have a speaker’s list and must stick to that in order to maintain democratic discussion. Now,” he checked the paper next to him, as he was taking the list for discussion so Hermione could speak freely. “Luna.”

“I don’t think there is any cause for doubt of their story. It’s clearly evidenced at least in the first hand accounts of comrades in good standing; Fred, Hermione, Neville, Ron, whom were forthright in their retelling of what happened. And Hermione is safely returned, with a Horcrux destroyed and then a Horcrux gained.” Luna’s airy voice floated around the room from the two-way mirror she was using to be present form her school, and despite its mild tone it still managed to make many look repentant for their outbursts. “I would more like to ask you, Hamaru, when you think the Cup can be destroyed?”

Hamaru nodded in acknowledgement of the question, and then Neville glanced around the crowd.

“Gillian, and then Hestia.”

“I’d like to ask Mr. Singh how he destroyed it!” She was a young woman probably not halfway into her twenties, and by the little bracelet she wore Hamaru could identify her as a member of The Front, who had all arrived wearing them and explained that they were like an alert beacon –Fred and George had been working on making more ever since the alliance. “I’m not too up on this kind of magic, I’ll admit. But if we come across one I wanna know what to do with it! Or not to do.”

Hestia then leaned forwards once Gillian had sat back. “I think as Neville pointed out, it’s pertinent to remember that destroying the Horcruxes isn’t going to guarantee our victory. It’s like what Dursley and Singh said the night we voted to split –unless we’ve got the majority of the community on our side, even taking out You-Know-Who for good will still leave the other Death Eaters entrenched in the Ministry.” Around the room there were nods in agreement. “I also thought about the fact that, last time, it actually did _seem_ like taking You-Know-Who out ended the war full stop. We get the word about the Potters, and the next night everyone across the country is celebrating. But even after that, the Death Eaters still killed a lot of people, or managed to avoid Azkaban, even managed to stay in powerful positions in a lot of cases. We can’t rely on hunting down bits of his soul and then call it a day.”

Her contribution set some murmuring, but it was kept to a minimum as Neville went through a few more people on his list, who mainly had questions about the finer points of their escape from Gringott’s and the condition of the dragon they had liberated.

“...Does anyone else want to get on the list?” Neville offered once the room had settled, and when no one came forward he gestured to Hamaru, Dudley and Hermione. “If you would be so kind.”

Hermione answered all that required her expertise, and then swiped the minutes from Tonks beside her so she could get back to her usual routine. Dudley spoke a bit about their caution and how astute the observations made over the course of the discussion were, and then he handed it off to Hamaru.

“Firstly, in regards to the dragon –I am shamed to say its fate is unknown. In my homeland the standard for Fauna is catch-and-release outside of hunting, and in considering the creature it is this which I fell back on. We were, however, much farther from its original prison than could reasonably be tracked, and so I do believe the chances to be good that it avoided recapture.” Hamaru then turned to Gillian. “As for an explanation of how I destroyed it, simply put... hm. Truly, some context may be needed.”

“To be clear, Dudley and I do not use _magic,_ ” many of the newest members of the Army made little noises of surprise. “All known Ingredients descend from the Gourmet Cells, the physical embodiment of Appetite Energy. So long as calories are available, Gourmet Cells generally increase the User’s physical strength, speed, stamina, and senses, as well as to offer regenerative abilities. Such is how I survived these scars.” Hamaru gestured to his face and arms, where the graphic reminder of the Tearor Moran Bird’s attack would remain with him all his life. “The trade off is the extremely high energy demands, which is the reason for my and Dudley’s extra rations –otherwise the Cells begin self-cannibalizing.”

Hamaru smiled in the face of the various expressions of horror and worry, for he knew that it sounded like a burden. “Don’t fret, we know how to manage them. Sufficient mental fortitude combined with certain exercises can hold off such symptoms for a time, at any rate. But, onward,” here Hamaru brushed at the scar tissue on his hand, and like a spark to kindling the thinner skin lit up with an orange glow. He then took up one of the ceramic mugs and shifted it in his hands, making it wider and squatter until what he was holding instead was a wooden soup bowl. “My Cells allow me to manipulate non-Gourmet Cells into changes of state on a molecular level. Ceramic to wood, water to steam or ice to glass, things of a sort, and should I push myself I may evoke a change in shape as well.”

The glow in his scars flickered out as he set the bowl down. “Dudley received his Cells accidentally from myself, and so they operate along the same lineage. He can manipulate the speed at which the atoms in an object vibrate –increase it too much and an onion would not be cooked, but set ablaze...” Dudley snorted at the reminder of his first foray into Cell usage. “What I used to destroy the Horcrux is the embodiment of my development of my Gourmet Cells, my Appetite Demon. It was originally a spirit born of hunger, who found my Cells compatible and as such made me its host. Through progressing my Cells to the point that I was able to harness the pure Appetite Energy from whence they came, and by providing enough calories, three times hence the Demon has manifested. The first on the day I received these scars. The second during an encounter with a certain Ingredient several years ago. The third was in reaction to the Horcrux.”

When he received no interruptions, Hamaru clapped his hands together, grateful that these wizarding types seemed to be adapting to his admittedly very foreign abilities. “The Heavenly King Zebra once said that when Appetite Energy is harnessed, any fight ceases to be one at all, and instead becomes a meal. Well, my Appetite Demon _ate_ the Horcrux, to great satisfaction if I may be so bold. It is... notoriously picky, to my dismay,” Hamaru shot his cousin an indulgent look for his hushed chortle at his expense. “Based on the accounts, should you encounter a Horcrux yourself there will be a feeling of being influenced from without, of the thing attempting to subsume your heart and courage. Best to refrain from touching it if possible and simply transport it here to be dealt with –there is no _easy_ way to destroy them, I am told. As for _when_ the Cup may be destroyed,” Hamaru nodded to Luna. “I can only say that it is still fairly full from this first course. Certainly once its hunger has returned it will be enthusiastic for the next. But to try to rush it and prompt _nausea_ would be an ill omen –and ill advised.”

A beat passed, then two, before Neville leaned over and nudged Hermione slightly –she shook herself out of her focus and looked down at the agenda.

“Ah, well –if there’s no other business in regards the Horcruxes? No? Then we should move on to the next point...”

The meeting progressed as usual, until when Hermione called for any other business, Cedric raised his hand. It was not necessarily odd for a proposal to come out last in the line up, since they ran a tight ship and it wasn’t always prudent to bring it up during the amendments to the agenda, but the seriousness in Cedric’s face did add some weight to it.

“I think we’ve overlooked something,” he said, sweeping his eye across the gathered resistance until he met Neville’s stare and his expression tinged with apology. “With Gringott’s distracted and the Ministry in an uproar, this could be a vital moment to carry out a larger operation. Distractions like this don’t come often.”

“Please, continue,” Neville prompted.

Cedric’s proposal was a simple one –they should concentrate on a large point of morale of the current regime –St. Mungo’s Hospital. Hamaru had heard mention of it in passing, but the particulars of the situation continued to elude him, and if the reaction to Cedric’s plan was any indication, it was for good reason. But at the same time, a majority of the room nodded along as he plotted a possible plan of attack, and by the end the mood in the room was charged with palatable excitement.

Neville handed the reins of managing the discussion to Hermione once more, and sat back to absorb the different opinions that were arising around the group. Hamaru kept his ears on the speakers –now that the Army was allied securely, many expressed their desire to rectify what they called the Order’s biggest folly, the loss of St. Mungo’s.

But while Hamaru listened to the pros and cons of taking back the hospital, he kept his eyes squarely on Neville.

The Army’s Officiator and main theoretician appeared more and more troubled as comrades weighed in on the topic and exhibited a favourable tilt therein. The man was perhaps not so much of a mystery as compared with their first meeting, but he certainly remained an enigma. Hamaru noted the tense line of his shoulders and the carefully distanced, serious expression on his face, the pressure with which he held his pen; not white knuckled, not so blatant a tell, but still visibly tense by the definition of the bones of his wrist.

Ever since he was a child, the pull to help those around him had been nigh irresistible, even in the dark early days of his time at the Gourmet Temple. His political enemies called it meddling, but Aimaru maintained it was his kind heart and dedication to his chosen path –both that of the Gourmet Knights and of the liberation of the world. It swept him into trouble occasionally, he would freely admit.

But more often it gifted him with allies. Some less apparent, some temporary, but allies all the same; solidarity across dividing lines was indispensible in his line of work. He did not subscribe to the idea of splitting people up so they could focus only on their own emancipation, no; a rising tide lifts all boats. And for those precious few who met his conviction and matched it, he did not invest himself merely to be a passing hand helping them greet the next goal –he endeavoured to be an arm linked through theirs, twined together to grow stronger, reach farther, and one day see the end of the long road as equals.

Neville was already firmly cemented in Hamaru’s mind as such a man. Now, he would watch and see, and later he would work to help.

“Neville? What do you say?”

Neville paused somehow; he hadn’t been moving, but he still managed to pause in consideration before he responded. Then he glanced at Hermione, who checked her list but ultimately made a ‘go ahead’ motion.

“I agree that we should put our resources to use concretely. As an organization we do not raise money, follow the movement and make alliances merely to continue these weekly meetings. We do so to produce results and win.” As always, Neville’s words were measured and precise, care and thought put into every sentence. “However, St. Mungo’s was a colossal failure on the part of the Order of the Phoenix, and we should not misrepresent how much so it was. It is my belief that if we were to undertake an effort to reclaim the hospital, we will see its complete destruction.”

Neville tapped his finger on the corner of his ledger, which he often did as a thinking tick as opposed to using his pen in the same manner to capture the room’s attention. “For those who are unaware, the Order received advance knowledge of the Death Eaters’ plan to take over the hospital. As there was a simultaneous threat of an attack on the school, Dumbledore split his forces, which was correct. He then failed to inform the student body _or_ the hospital staff of the possibility of attack, therefore weakening the resistance –you cannot rely on a spur of the moment call for defence. When the Death Eaters had not arrived at the hospital for hours after the intelligence predicted and a plea for back up was issued from the school, the forces in St. Mungo’s travelled to Hogwarts and left the hospital under the watch of only two Order members, comrades Oliver and Tonks. Colin Creevey, who was in the hospital to visit relatives, was one of the only people to help them when Death Eaters finally arrived. In the ensuing firefight they escaped with their lives, but St. Mungo’s was taken and even now Colin remains unresponsive in the Infirmary.”

“All patients related to Order members were killed and all Healers sympathetic to us imprisoned.” Hamaru’s heart ached at the tale, especially when he saw a flicker of bone deep sorrow across Neville’s face and recalled that night in the library when the man confided that he had lost his parents during this same incident. He supposed it was now apparent that part of this enigma of a man was a core of steel tempered by loss. “As recent as last month, our sources indicate that the hospital is now mostly empty and used primarily for temporary holding and apparition, with only a handful of Healers taking patients who can afford the new costs for treatment. With this in mind; we have a lack of patients and staff, the building’s status as a stronghold for the Death Eaters, the symbolic value of its ownership, and the inability of forces as weak as ours to hold it for longer than a week I would say.”

“And,” Neville nodded at Hermione’s indication of her watch. “As Hestia pointed out, there is no ‘once-and-for-all’. We will not win if You-Know-Who dies, nor will we lose if St. Mungo’s remains in their hands. A black and white mindset doesn’t help the cause –in fact, it is counterproductive. It creates an atmosphere of demoralization and desperation when we face setbacks.”

“Regardless of results, our task remains the same. We must build up the Army and win the community to our banner. This requires patience, dedication, and a sense of proportion. In that vein, I will put my support behind an initiative to destroy St. Mungo’s for the reasons I listed previously, but if we democratically come to the decision to _take it_ then I will just the same work for that end. Thank you.”

Cedric looked a little shell shocked, or impressed –it was hard to tell which. All the same, he nodded seriously. “I understand. In light of these points I wish to put forward the resolution for serious consideration at the Central Committee level, towards either outcome. Is that acceptable?”

“All in favour?” Hermione quickly counted the hands; it was more than two thirds of the room, including Hamaru himself. “Opposed?” Most of the rest, with Dudley among them. “Abstaining?” Three hands –Neville, Cedric, and one Dennis Creevey. “I will bring the motion forward at the CC meeting in two days time. Cedric, if you wish to be present please approach me by tomorrow night at the latest.”

Vvv

_[April 1997]_

_Word came in the middle of April –breakfast always featured the flurry of wings and students receiving packages or letters, but for the DA it was an exercise in waiting on pins and needles for a missive from the Order. The Defence Association had long since shed its ‘student club’ trappings and established a foothold among the student body, and when Neville did not return in September he knew it would continue to do good under Luna’s direction. When Dumbledore confided to him of the existence of Horcruxes, that was when his decision was made, and he planned to enter the Order’s ranks just as soon as the school year was over with._

_(He couldn’t have predicted that today was the last day he would be a student. He hadn’t known that morning just how quickly the tides could change. He naively thought they would have a bit more **time**. He never made that mistake again.)_

_The newspaper came first, and there was an innocuous article on the third page in about St. Mungo’s rearranging its wards for the first time in nearly a century, as well as a new system they were introducing that required wand registration at the front desk before treatment. Neville had thought it odd, but his mind had remained on other things –the attempted Death Eater raid a few days ago had blindsided the DA, who had scrambled to organize support for the Order when the call came. In the aftermath, Dumbledore had said that the decision not to forewarn the student body was made so not to induce panic. Privately, Neville thought that the raid itself did that splendidly regardless._

_Then there was a commotion from the Ravenclaw table. A third year, Maureen something-or-other, burst into tears while clutching a letter, and everyone around her moved in concern. Professor Flitwick stood up and began to make his way over to her, when there was a shout from further down the Gryffindor table. Jamie Tolbourn, a seventh year, had his head bowed over a letter as well, a hand over his face and his shoulders shaking as he gasped for air._

_Ron wobbled to his feet and went to speak lowly with the distraught boy, and with trepidation Neville stood up and searched the Great Hall for anything amiss. When he did, an official looking owl bearing the St. Mungo’s crest swooped down from the windows; when it looked to be heading for him, Neville raised his arm and allowed the bird to land despite the sharp talons. He accepted the hospital missive and gave the bird some bacon for good measure, and stared down at the thick envelope with something cold growing in his chest._

_“They can’t **do this** ,” Jamie moaned from a dozen feet away, his voice wet. “He was going to be **married** , he didn’t **do anything**!”_

_There was another wail of denial from a Gryffindor first year, Terry Montcolm, and then more tears from a Hufflepuff boy in fourth year that Neville didn’t know. There were more, even as the rest of the student body began murmuring uneasily and all of them centred around the standardized envelopes clutched in the various students’ hands –some from St. Mungo’s, and when Neville looked closer he realized that the others were post-marked back to the Ministry of Magic._

_The teachers were moving now, no longer leaving the chaos to reign. Pomphrey rushed out of the hall through the antechamber door, and the rest had begun to go to individual students and ask what was wrong, what was it the letter had said?_

_“No, no, it’s not true!” Maureen sobbed into Flitwick’s shoulder as he read the missive with a pained look on his face. “She was –was only there for observation! It shouldn’t –it-”_

_Neville opened the envelope. The paper inside was thick and official, and bore an unfamiliar name in the top corner, certainly not the director of the hospital Neville had penned as recently as January. The first line read, ‘It is our duty to inform you...’ and Neville pulled the letter away and concentrated very hard on keeping his breathing steady. Hermione’s voice asked him what was wrong, but she sounded very far away, almost unintelligible over the roar in his ears._

_McGonagall came down from the staff table and gently extracted Jamie from Ron’s quiet fretting, and she along with the rest of the teachers began to herd the disconsolate teenagers out of the Great Hall and up to the Hospital Wing. Snape approached him with a severe look on his face just as Ron reached his side once again, and lowly demanded he give him the letter._

_“My parents are dead,” Neville told him, and saying the words made his chest tighten painfully. He forced himself to remain standing, he was the head of the DA, he **couldn’t** panic right now, had to keep a straight head. _

_“Tolbourn’s brother works at St. Mungo’s,” Ron added, speaking quietly enough that among the general commotion no one else could hear. “That was a Ministry advisement that he’s been sent to Azkaban for ‘breach of code’. It was signed by a ‘Marius Warlowe’.”_

_“Damn,” Snape muttered. “Longbottom, reign in your lot. Weasley, Madam Pomphrey will need your assistance.” He swept away without another word, over to the next closest teacher to ask likely the same thing, and Neville jolted when hands caught his elbows. Ron and Hermione were on either side of him, looking equal parts scared and concerned._

_“Hermione, call an emergency meeting,” he instructed, and without giving her time to protest he turned to Ron. “Ron, go help in the Hospital Wing. Try and figure out what happened to each student. I’m going to talk with Dumbledore.”_

_“Neville-”_

_“Not right now,” Neville bit out, barely able to think about the letter in his hands without feeling like he was going to disintegrate. “I will meet you in the Come-and-Go Room in an hour.”_

_He left, and felt cold try to spread up his throat –Dumbledore saw him coming and stepped back, leading the way towards the same antechamber that Pomphrey had left from. When they were alone Neville threw up a silencing spell and turned on the headmaster with more aplomb than he had ever mustered in front of the old man before, and quietly demanded to know what was going on._

_“St. Mungo’s has been taken by Tom’s forces,” Dumbledore said, for once frank and sounding tired. “He has imprisoned any Healers sympathetic to us, and any patients related to the Order were –killed. I am so sorry, my dear boy-”_

_“I don’t want to hear it,” Neville’s entire face was hot and his head was spinning, and the only thing keeping him in the moment was the grip on his wand and the crumpled parchment under his other hand. “How do you know this already?”_

_Dumbledore didn’t answer, just looked at him with pity, and Neville suddenly couldn’t stand it. He let out a snarl and threw the envelope into the wall, and ripped away the privacy barrier with less care than he probably should have. He didn’t care even as awareness of the rest of the castle came flooding back twice as hard as it would otherwise and slammed into his brain like a sledgehammer._

_“The DA will be meeting in an hour, **Headmaster** ,” he shoved his wand into its holster and tried to calm the pumping of his blood in his ears, the pounding headache brewing in his head. “I would ask that you send a representative to debrief us on the situation. We wouldn’t want to **induce panic**.”_

_Neville didn’t remember how he made it into the deeper halls of the dungeons; one moment he was striding away from Dumbledore and the next he was in a silent, dark room, the cold making the breath mist in front of his face. Rarely was he with silence these days, not just because of the propensity of Gryffindors –running a youth chapter of a resistance cell wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, no matter how derisively some of the Order members looked upon the initiative. But here it was quiet, and dark, and despite the cold it was about then that something uncurled from Neville’s stomach up to his throat and behind his eyes._

_He was alone. The Defence Association would meet within the hour. Dumbledore had answered his questions for once._

_Neville’s back hit the closed door behind him, and he put his hand over his face and wept. His heaving gasps echoed in the silent chamber and the shaking in his limbs wasn’t even remotely due to the cold seeping into his skin and turning his fingers and ears numb. When tears started dripping off his chin he found he couldn’t bear to stand anymore, and he slid down the door and sat in a heap on the floor in front of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this. Maybe when Warrington died was a close approximation, but this – **this** -_

_Months with no word of Voldemort’s activities. They all suspected he’d taken over the Ministry, but everything had been so **quiet** , it was almost as if there wasn’t a war going on. The scattered Death Eater raids seemed to be child’s play to deflect. He had begun to actually believe that there might be an end in sight to all of this._

_He was naive, and it burned him down to his bones to know it. An entire Hospital full of people, gone just like that. Nothing in the paper that revealed the awful, tragic scope of what Dumbledore said unfolded, just impersonal letters sent out by route; but more than that, was the implicit threat that went along with it. ‘We know who you are,’ those letters whispered, ‘and if you don’t shape up, this will be you, soon’._

_Neville sobbed and his nails dug into his temples, the pinpricks of sensation keeping him here in this cold room, rather than away in his parents’ ward, the only place he had ever been with them. Alice and Frank Longbottom were less his parents, it had often seemed, and more war heroes who he was obliged to care for. He had never really known them. He kept his mother’s small gifts of wrappers and threads, he brushed his father’s hair when it grew too long, but everything he knew of them was second-hand. Even their love._

_Almost sixteen years they had been trapped in that ward. Brutishly, he was glad they hadn’t been subjected to more torture –he knew Lestrange was capable of acts far beyond cruelty, especially now. He hoped they hadn’t, at any rate. He could not bring himself to think that death was a better end, after so long, but he knew it to be true in his heart._

_This would only be the beginning. Neville drew in a shuddering breath and stared into the dark of the room. He had a meeting to attend, soon. He would need to address this, somehow, and he couldn’t afford to let himself get dragged down into despair. His parents were gone._

_He needed to keep moving._

Vvv

While Neville monopolized on his and Hamaru’s clear schedules in the early morning, Dudley invariably began to prepare breakfast. Today was a slow day, with only the small meeting of the Central Committee being held around eleven, so he took his sweet time chopping vegetables and mixing spices, not surprised when the only one to join him was Hermione.

They existed in companionable silence for awhile, and it was when he made to refill her coffee that she broached the topic.

“A lot happened during my school years.”

Dudley made a noise of interest and didn’t pause as he poured the coffee –she nodded in thanks, but didn’t look up from her paperwork.

“At eleven I helped fight off a Mountain Troll. At twelve I spent months terrified I would be murdered because of who my parents were before I was paralyzed by a Basilisk for eight weeks,” she said all of this very plainly, with not much dramatization to aid in visualizing it. “At thirteen there was a madman to hunt down and soul-sucking monsters to fight. Fourteen, I watched my best friend compete in a tournament to the death and at fifteen we were knee deep in organizing a student resistance group. Added all up, it’s a boatload of PTSD, OCD and Anxiety stacked on top of and folded into each other.”

“You seem to manage it well,” Dudley offered.

“My medication helps,” Hemione snorted. “I always keep a stash on me, so I was fine at the IGO. But it’s why I’m so set on certain things, and you guessed it –why I’m a full-timer. I can go out more easily than the others, but it’s always a consideration.”

“I’ve a bit of experience, from the social work side,” Dudley sat down heavily and began peeling potatoes, carefully saving the leavings for the next days’ soup and stock. “Ou-sensei, my first mentor, she used to work with victims of human trafficking. And a lotta Knights have trainin’ in mental health care.” When Hermione looked at him with wide eyes, Dudley chuckled lowly. “Don’t look so shocked at my hidden depths, Granger. Hamaru may be the one with conviction in his blood, but I want to see his dream just as badly. He goes out to gather the Ingredients, I am tasked to feed those at our table. In all things.”

“I don’t understand it, this culture the two of you are bound up in. I _saw it_ and I still don’t understand,” she admitted, and Dudley took the subject change with ease –mental illness was always harder to talk about than people wished. “It’s all _food_ , even your turn of phrase. Yet you’ve drawn such similar conclusions as to exactly mirror people here.”

“Mm, odd isn’t it?” Dudley wiped his hands on his side towel and poured a cup of coffee of his own. “Hama’s done some thinkin’ on it. I think it comes down to the difference between the individual and the general. As a person, I believe the meal is the great equalizer, a levellin’ of the playin’ field. That people on opposing sides can sit and talk and eat and drink, and find some common ground. But on a societal scale –well, appealing to the humanity of the rulin’ class never works. They would rather drag everyone into ruin with ‘em than curb their greed. They _know_ what they’re doing. They _know_ that there’s more than enough wealth and resources for everyone to have a good standard of living, and yet. And _yet_.”

“So they’ll never be _able_ to sit at the table and share in the meal. They want to own the table and the meal, and buy the other person’s service like any other commodity. Even where we’re from, economic power doesn’t really rest on a monopoly of Ingredients or Cooking Ability or Gourmet Cell strength –it rests on who controls the levers of industry. Who owns the factory, who controls the banks.”

“When you put it that way, it makes a bit more sense.” Hermione mused. “And why it’s still applicable here. When things work the same at the base level, whether the top layer is cooking or technology or magic doesn’t particularly matter.”

“Aye, only so much as tactics matter. You wouldn’t fight a fascist the same you would a garden variety Tory...”

It was nice to have peers in the same age range, Dudley mused as he and Hermione continued to discuss tactics to use against different political flavours of shithead. Jiddal was a bit of an outlier among the sections of the IWT –nearly the whole of the country was engaged with the revolution, but due to the sheer devastation of the decades following the Open Ground conflict the demographic skewed decidedly older. Other countries such as Value and Mazt were composed much more so of people below 35, but Hamaru and Dudley never got to stay there long enough to help for more than a few weeks at a time.

Draco stumbled in after an hour, the first of the rest of the household even before Neville and Hamaru, and as he mumbled grateful praises for the mug of coffee Dudley passed him the Chef could only smile. Maybe this whole endeavour wouldn’t end up so bad after all.


End file.
